Rapture Noir
by Spartan067
Summary: After the Second World War, Jack Martin comes to the underwater metropolis of Rapture to build a new life, and gets entangled in the avarice, decadence, and tragedy that marks this city of dreams. please read and review
1. Prologue

August 21st, 1960

Somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, between Greenland and Iceland, lay The city of Rapture. With its towering art deco buildings and futuristic glowing lights, Rapture looked like something out of a dream. Indeed, it was a dream. It was the dream of one man, Andrew Ryan, who sought to create the last bastion for the best of humanity, free from the parasitic world. Rapture's inhabitants brought with them their own hopes and dreams, of prosperity, independence, and perhaps even happiness. But all dreams must die, and Rapture was no different.

Somewhere in the city, a man was staring out of a window in his apartment. It was a very posh apartment, located in one of the more wealthier districts of the city. There was a spacious living room, a bathroom, a small kitchenette and an office which doubled as a bedroom, where the man was currently sitting. He was a tall, thin man, with a medium build. From his Italian mother were dark hair, dark brown eyes and Romanesque nose. From his Irish father were his high cheekbones and ruddy complexion.

He peered out of his apartment window with a sense of disgust. "Look at this place", he said out loud to himself, "It's all gone to hell."

For Rapture had indeed gone to hell. The city's foundation was cracked and broken. Several buildings were flooded and abandoned. The majority of the population was either dead or deranged-the man himself was barely holding onto his sanity-and the ones with enough sense in them barricaded themselves in their homes, with enough food, water, some weapons, and a way out (when life became too unbearable). The man was well stocked in all of these. At least, he'd make it through the week.

The man, still at his seat, poured himself a glass of Lacas Scotch from a bottle on his table. He pulled out an Oxford Club Cigarette from carton in his desk drawer, while a small fireball formed in his left hand, which he used to light the cigarette. After taking a deep drag from his smoke, and consequently blowing out a voluminous cloud of tobacco, the man opened another drawer with an audio diary, that is, a small tape recorder device the size of a book, and pulled out a sizable collection of tapes. They were tapes he made of his life from earlier, happier times.

The man often listen to his diaries between the long silences that now marked his life. There wasn't much to do, really, except eat, sleep, splice, and wait, for nothing specific, but something that could tell him he could stop hiding.

But until then, the man popped in his first diary, and pressed play.


	2. Coming to Rapture

May 11, 1948

My name is Jack Martin. I was born in Brooklyn in 1924. I lived there for the majority of my life, until now. There's not much to say about me before Rapture, except maybe that I fought in the war. I participated in D-day, and let me tell you that was no picnic. Part of the 506th I was, and a damned good soldier too.

But I don't want to talk about it. I fought for three years in that shithole. Three years of slogging through mud and snow, struggling to survive. I was even shot a couple of times. Let me tell you, it wasn't pleasant. I went to war thinking I'm gonna be a hero. I left the war as a mess, someone who survived because he was lucky or unlucky enough not to get killed. Sure I won a couple of medals, purple heart and DSC, but those bits of metal are poor compensation for the hell I endured.

When the war ended, I came back to Brooklyn. Mom wanted me to work for a Mr. Frank Fontaine, a guy who ran the fishery that my father worked in before he died. (Poor guy had a crate fall on him. Died instantly). I met him a couple of times when I was a kid. He was a bald guy with a thick Bronx accent and this pencil thin mustache, as if somebody drew it on the chump. He had this vaguely menacing quality to him. The guy didn't put on any airs or something. Matter of fact, he was actually rather friendly. But deep down, I could feel as though it was some kind of veneer, as though he was only acting. I found out more of what Fontaine was really like the night before he disappeared

It was sometime in February, cold as a witch's teat. After freezing our asses off pulling out fish guts, Fontaine and I went to a bar he used to work in, The Clanger. You see, he took a real liking to me, probably because of my old man. He was Fontaine's right hand man or something. Anyway, we both thought a snifter of brandy, well a couple really, would be the best thing to warm us up.

Anyhow, after he and I both got thoroughly shitfaced, Fontaine turned to me told me the weirdest nonsense I ever heard him speak.

"Jack, this fishery has been good to me." he said. "but I'm looking for a bigger score. You know what I mean?" suddenly, Fontaine's voice dropped low, almost to a whisper. He had this crazy look in his eyes, like a vulture spying a wounded animal.

"I don't know Mr. Fontaine." I replied thickly. I was a bit too drunk to really let the words register, and I assumed that it was the alcohol talking, not him.  
Fontaine chuckled. "What the hell". He replied. He then pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket. "I'm going away for awhile" he said, and I want you to keep this. It's your monthly salary."

"Thank You Mr. Fontaine." I replied, still under the booze. We soon got out of the bar and both hailed a taxi home.

After the cab ride, I got to the crummy little apartment I had. It was a filthy place, with barely glowing lights, cracked walls, and practically one room, but It was better than being on the streets. Anyhow, I sat on my bed, a stiff, creaky thing, and examines the money.

It wasn't enough to last me the month, but all the way until October. Fontaine was really going away. No doubt, but why all this cash?

Well, I didn't have ye time to ask him because the next day, Frank Fontaine disappeared without a trace. Nobody knew where the bastard went Nobody even knew he was leaving. Turns out I was the only one who he told.

For the next few months, I lived off the money Fontaine gave me, but I still couldn't help but wonder what happened to him. I kept hearing about "the vanishings" how people all around the world suddenly disappeared. Some said aliens. Others said government conspiracy. There were even a few who talked about some kind of utopian exodus, a sort of second coming. But I didn't really believe that one. It didn't seem likely that a person like Fontaine would go to paradise. I never knew how wrong I was.

Last week, i got a letter in the mail. It was early in the morning, and I was making eggs and bacon for breakfast when I received the letter.

"Hi Jack," it began. This wasn't too surprising. I placed a mug of coffee on the table and went to pick up my breakfast. As I set the plate down on the table, I continued reading the letter.  
"read this very carefully. Pack a trunk with everything you can. Clothes, Food, a toothbrush, you get the idea. Then buy a ticket for A ship called The Savior." I chewed nervously on my food. Who do I know would want me to take some crackpot voyage on some ship without even telling me where I'm going? I finished my breakfast, and began washing the meal down with my. Coffee. Tasted as though someone shat in it.

By that time, I was ready to throw away the letter and go on with my day. But then I read the signature

"If all goes well, I'll be seeing you real soon. Frank Fontaine"

I spat out my coffee in a brown foamy spray. It was as though I just saw a ghost. Not only was Fontaine alive, but he also planned on taking me to where he was. While there was a part of me which still doubted it, I was still curious. Real curious

And that was why, yesterday, I decided to take the trip

I took the quiet voyage to of all places, a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean. There. As I opened the doors of the lighthouse, holding nothing but the steamer trunk filled with everything I could carry, I saw a huge statue of Andrew Ryan above a banner that was marked "no gods or kings. Only man."

Ryan. I knew the sonuvabitch. He was this one businessman who disappeared in the vanishings. Wealthy as fuck. Did he have something to do with this?

As I pondered this revelation a group of people, some who looked as poor as I did, others much wealthier, nudged me forward. It was time to keep going. As I kept moving, I encountered this round bathysphere. Apparently, we were going under the ocean.

I Got in the bathysphere with a few other tired looking men. someone pulled a lever at the back of the machine, and the bathysphere plunged underwater.

If I was going to be heading under the ocean, then this better be good...

A screen came down in front of the Bathysphere Window. In front of it came a picture of Andrew Ryan in repose with a pipe in his hand. Some cloyingly cheery music and a voiceover came soon after

"I am Andrew Ryan, and I am here to ask you one question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?"

Here we go. Ryan was known for his bombastic, big business philosophy. It was some French word. Laissez-Faire Capitalism, I think.

He then droned on about how the Soviets, the Catholics, and the Americans did not think so. I was about ready to fall asleep when he said these lines.

"I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture."

The screen flew off, and then, I saw it.

Underwater, at the bottom of the atlantic ocean, was a massive city.

The lights glowed a futuristic green, and the buildings were festooned with neon signs advertising various products, most of which I never heard before. With its characteristic Art deco design, the cIty looked like a surreal mixture between Manhattan and Atlantis. It probably was the closest you could get to that sunken metropolis. As I kept staring, Ryan's voiceover continued

"A city where the artist would not fear the censor,  
where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality,  
where the great would not be constrained by the small...

And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well."

I sure as hell hoped so.


	3. A Bigger Score

May 12, 1948

I thought Fontaine wanted me to come to this fish tank Because He needed another wharf rat.

At least that's what I thought yesterday when i first arrived. Fontaine came to see me at the metro. He was dressed in a simple white collared shirt and brown trousers. Hadn't changed a bit.

"Hey Jack, over here!" he called out to me. The guy didn't change a bit. He vigorously shook my hand. He then took my by the shoulder and we started walking.

"Mr. Fontaine, of all the places to get a bigger score, I didn't think it'd be at the bottom of the ocean." I chuckled.

"Never judge a book by its cover, kid" replied Fontaine. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink."

After we walked through a couple of glass tunnels, which looked like they were straight out of an aquarium (that's what Rapture looked like to me. An inside out aquarium where the fish watched the people)

An elevator trip and two long corridors took me to "Neptune's Bounty" an underwater dock where Fontaine Fisheries was relocated.

"This is where we went? It's huge!" I gasped.

"Told you this was a bigger score" chimed Fontaine.

He then took me to this Bar they had there, The Fighting McDonagh's. Although the Irish side of me cringed a little after finding out the bar was owned by a Limey, after going inside and seeing the bright, ocean themed interior, all was forgiven.

Fontaine took us over to a table by a window, with a great view of the other buildings. After ordering a few drinks I never heard of, Fontaine and I started talking.

"How do you like it down here so far?" asked Fontaine

"It's..different" I replied absently. I was staring out the window for the past five minutes, gazing at city, whose towering skyscrapers and bright neon signs loomed from the dark abyss. I remember when my mother told me about moving to America from Naples in 1908, a little nine year old Neapolitan seeing the bright lights of New York City for the first time. My father always had a snicker since his grandparents arrived in the 1840's and so was born and raisedm there, but now, I know how my mother felt when she first immigrated .

"well, better get used to it. You'll be living in Rapture for the rest of your life, or at least until this place floods." I gave a laugh.

An attractive young redhead in a green cocktail dress with beautiful tits, I mean, eyes, brought us our drinks., a couple of "Old Harbinger Beers." Fontaine raised his glass high.

"To a bright future in this bucket of seawater!" belched Fontaine. We clinked our glasses and drank heartily. Stuff wasn't too bad actually. it was ice cold and refreshing, just like a beer you'd find on the surface. I looked at the redhead, who was dressed in a who was sitting at the bar. she had this great slim figure, minus her rack of course, and a row of freckles across her nose that was drop dead gorgeous. Her green eyes connected with mine, and she smiled shyly. that killed me. Fontaine caught me staring and smirked at me. I looked away and tried to back out

"It's getting late, I'm gonna need a place to stay" I replied. Surely Fontaine could give me a hotel or something that I could Stay in. Instead, he called over the redhead.

"Maggie, could you bring Jack here to one of the rooms upstairs? He just came over from topside, and needs a place to stay".

"Sure." replied Maggie. She had a rather high voice, which didn't quite match the way she looked, yet oddly, it fit her just fine. She took me upstairs to a hallway with a few rooms and numberlocks. We stopped at the last one to the left.

"The Code's 1947, the year the bar was finished." She said tersely. I thanked her and went into my room.

It was a small room, about the size of my old apartment, with a bed, a desk, and a small closet with safe for valuables, though I didn't have any on me. One of the walls had a window with another view of the city (Ryan really knew how to give you a view of the place). I unloaded my steamer trunk, mostly clothes and toiletries, but i took my service uniform for safekeeping. I was too tired to do much else really, so I slept for the night.

It was today I found out what Fontaine really wanted me here for.

Today was my first day of work at the fisheries. I was dressed up in my old wading boots and overalls from topside, and as I headed to Fontaine fisheries, I noticed that it was sealed up by a big metal door, with a sliding plate. Rather odd for a simple fishery. Anyways, I knocked on the cold hard steel, and waited for a response.

A few moments later, the plate slid open and out peered the old weathered face of Peach Wilkins.

"who is it?" he cried in his wheezy voice.

"Peach, it's me. Jack Martin." I replied. Wilkins was a paranoid little fuck. Maybe he was the one who put in that door.

"Marty? C'mon in! I haven't seen you in months!" Wilkins opened the door and I walked in to the rather cold fisheries

The whole place was covered in a layer of Ice, so i had to be careful with where I stepped. The joint was packed with other fishermen, dressed similarly to me, each with a crateful of fish in each hand. There were even a few negroes, and at least one spic. Wilkins pulled me deeper into the fisheries. "Fontaine wanted to see you today before you start the job " said Wilkins. We went deeper into the fisheries and I overheard a couple of guys talking.

"You can't quit now. Fontaine will find you." said the first.  
" Hey, fuck Fontaine." said the second.  
"You don't fuck Fontaine. Fontaine Fuck's you!" replied. the first

Those aren't exactly encouraging words to hear on the first day of the job.  
"Peach...What exactly did Fontaine say he wanted with me" I asked nervously.  
"He didn't say, but you should still see him. It sounds important" Replied Wilkins.  
"That's very encouraging." I replied dryly.

We came across a Securis Bulkhead, which immediately pulled itself out of the way to reveal a spacious cavern. After some more walking, I came across a submarine bay with Frank Fontaine standing at the controls in his office.

"Hiya Mr. Fontaine" I shouted awkwardly.  
"Hey Jack." replied Fontaine as he shook my hand. "You ready for your first day?" he asked good-naturedly  
"Sure." I replied "Peach Wilkins says you wanted to talk to me?"  
"Yeah." Fontaine looked at a small pool of water below a winch. "A submarine should come in a few minutes filled with the best fish in the North Atlantic. You know the drill."

I knew the drill. Sort the fish, load them up for storage then, get the day's pay. Just like on the surface.

As I began to Leave, Fontaine told me one thing "Oh, and Jack, I'm setting a meeting here after hours at 11PM today. It's about that bigger score."

As I was sorting out the fish, I couldn't help but think about the meeting Fontaine was making. I suspected that he wasn't down here just because he believed that "sweat of your brow" shit that Ryan was pushing. But more importantly, why'd he wait so long To take me. It seemed like I was the last of Fontaine's guys to come down to Rapture. What was going on?

during the work, I struck up a little conversation with Wilkins to see what I could squeeze out of him.

"Peach...any idea what this little meeting after work's about?" Wilkins turned to me and let out a sigh of exasperation  
"We all come down here, figured we'd all be part of Ryan's Great Chain. Turns out Ryan's chain is made of gold, and ours are the sort with the big iron ball around your ankle. He's up in Fort Frolic banging fashion models... we're down in this dump yanking guts outta fish"  
"So?"  
"Fontaine's promising something better. He's like one of us, you know? Like he's worked a day in his life."  
"You really think Fontaine's gonna come up with anything good?"  
"Hey, it's not like things could get a lot worse" Peach finished his crate and went off.

Later that evening, at Eleven o'clock sharp, I went back to the Fisheries to see Fontaine and the other guys. After knocking on the door, Wilkins opened it up.

Fontaine was standing right in the middle of the fishery on a circle with about a dozen or so other guys.

"Jesus Christ, I thought you was gonna a be no-show" said Fontaine. He was smoking a cigarette, which he immediately dropped to the floor.

"Jack...do you miss the surface?" asked Fontaine. I had a feeling that he was talking about his "big score". "Because a lot of other people do."

"I sure I Wish I could see Casablanca down here, Mr. Fontaine." I replied

Fontaine chuckled. "Me too, kid. You ever knew what kinda. Business your father did with me?"

"No sir."

"Mickey Martin made us a shitload of dough by doing a little smuggling from Cuba. But this place' make us a helluva lot more than that."

Now I knew what Fontaine wanted, why I was he last guy down here. He was getting hints ready for me before I restarted the "family business".

"So...you ready to follow in your father's footsteps?"

The stakes were higher here. This wasn't no "business on the side" shit. Smuggling meant going back to the surface world, and if anyone found out about this place, then Rapture was fucked. Even if nobody didn't, of Andrew Ryan caught us, we were even more fucked.

On the other hand, I was a bum all my life, either dodging bullets or breaking my back for peanuts, and here came my chance to finally be somebody. Rapture was about making it big, and by god, I was going to make it big.

So I turned to Fontaine, looked him straight in the eye, and said "Yes, Mr Fontaine. I'm ready."


	4. Sea Slugs and Scientists

July 1st, 1949

It's been a little more than a year since I came to Rapture, and while I haven't been living the dream yet, Fontaine and I still are making more money down here right now than Al Capone ever made during Prohibition.

It's surprisingly tame work. We went topside twice a week, first to sell some of our fish (we couldn't buy topside things in Rapture Dollars, of course) and then to various places to buy some "choice goods" you couldn't get under the sea: Beef, milk (that "Calcio" crap they had in Rapture tasted like it came out of somebody's balls), and every now and then a few "extras", movies, books, religious things (although Rapture was technically atheist, people still need something to pray too when the chips are down), and even dope like nose candy and reefers (although this stuff wasn't technically "illegal" in Rapture, it was difficult to make, so we could sell it for a premium).

I didn't feel too bad about. We weren't shooting each other with Tommy guns or harassing shopkeepers; we were just doing business. Maybe less than legal business, but business still. At any rate,even though Fontaine took 40% of our earnings, we were making a hell of a lot more dough than we would've as Fishermen.

However, a few days ago, something happened. Something that would make Andrew Ryan himself look like he was running a fucking paper route.

I came right back from my shift, making a few deliveries to the Farmer's Market (Looks like I'm the only one who knows how Milton and Richard make their cheese and where Paddon gets his meat) and was about to have a smoke on the wharf when I came across Robin Thompson, one of the negroes who worked with me. He was a Tuskegee Airman during the war. A dogfight above Pantelleria crippled his right hand, so Fontaine had him do the simple stuff, like operating the submarine winch. Still pretty decent for a black man, though.

He was with some Kraut Woman, holding what appeared to be a glowing black fish. With his right hand. The one he had crippled.

My Curiosity piqued, I walked towards him. I saw that it wasn't a fish, but some kind of Sea Slug.

"Danke" said the Kraut in her thick German Accent, and she went away. I approached Thompson to ask him about what just happened

"What was that about, Rob?" I asked him as I took a drag from my smoke. Thompson looked at his fingers as he clenched and unclenched them in disbelief. "I don't know," he replied "It's just that I remember yesterday that coming to the docks after we went...fishing, and seeing this funny looking slug stuck on the sub. When I tried to pull it off, the damn thing bit me on my right hand." He glanced again it his hand, now rotating it from left to right. "It hurt like a bitch. That wasn't right. My hand hadn't hurt like a bitch for over five years. So I kept the thing in a jar, thinking about seeing a doctor and showing it to him. But this morning, I found put my hand started working again. When Tenenbaum, the kraut I was talking to, saw it, she wanted the slug. So I just said what the hell, and gave it to her. Didn't need to show it to no doctor anymore."

"well, it looks like you'll finally get a date with Rosie Palms." I said laughing.

"Fuck you." chortled back Thompson

"C'mon, let's tell Fontaine the good news." we both needed to go back to the fishery anyways. When we got there, Fontaine was having a smoke outside.

"Hello Mr. Fontaine" said Thompson grinning as he shook Fontaine's hand. Fontaine looked on sternly as he noticed which hand Thompson was shaking with.

"I knew you was faking it. Negroes. Always laying on the job." Thompson gingerly pulled back his hand. That wasn't the response he expected. But Fontaine's expression immediately lightened.

"I'm just fuckin' with you. How'd this happen?" there was that vulture look in Fontaine's eyes again. Creepy as hell.

"well, some kinda sea slug bit me and pulled some voodoo shit. Next thing I know, my hand starts working again." I expected Fontaine to start laughing, but instead, his gaze sharpened.  
"Well, congratulations anyway. But now you'll start lugging crates."  
The rest of the day went pretty uneventfully, and after work, I went back to the McDonagh's. While I did try to find another place to live, the only other places were Artemis Suites or the Sinclair Deluxe, both of which made that shithole I used to own on the surface look like a penthouse. But as I sat in my room, indulging myself in some fine Kentucky Whiskey we smuggled from Topside, I couldn't help but think about that glint in Fontaine's Eyes. The last time I saw that look was right before Fontaine went to Rapture. And that was when he made some real cash through topside smuggling. But if he was thinking about making a business through a magic gastropod, this must've been some serious stuff.  
I turned out to be right because Yesterday, I got acquainted with Brigid Tenenbaum.  
It was my first day off, and since my Wallet grew a rounder figure, I decided to buy some tickets to Rapture Stadium across the Farmer's market. (the joint had everything from Croquet to Cricket) when I came across Tenenbaum, who was sitting at a bench right outside the McDonagh's.

she was a small woman with curly brown hair and brown eyes. She was dressed in mustard stained Jumper, whose sleeves were short enough to reveal a string of numbers tattooed on her arm, and it was then I knew that she was one of those concentration camp Jews. I shuddered to think about what those Nazi Fucks did to her.

We locked eyes for a good thirty seconds, all the while she was staring at me impatiently.

"Are you Jack Martin" she asked, breaking the silence with her grating, thickly accented voice.

"why do you want to know?" I asked. I recognized her from the Wharf. She collected the Sea Slug from Thompson

"I need to meet your boss, Fontaine." when I raised my eyebrows she continued "All the Respectable scientists have turned me away. And I have an offer that he can't 's about the Sea Slug."

"All right, Ms. Tenenbaum. But Mr. Fontaine's a busy man. This better not be a waste of his time."

After I saw the game (still can't believe the sea bulls lost to the raiders. Those guys were amateurs.) I went to sea Fontaine at Neptune's Bounty to tell Fontaine about Tenenbaum's offer.  
"What does Frau Kraut want with me?" asked Fontaine impatiently.  
"She said its something about the sea slug tht bit Rob Thompson". Fontaine had the look again in his eyes.

"Tell her to come by the fisheries. It seems our little German might have something serious for us."

so later that evening, We met with Ms. Tenenbaum in a room we rented in the Fighting McDonagh's. The woman was still wearing that stained jumper I saw her in today (couldn't she change her clothes?) and was carrying a briefcase with her. Fontaine and I brought some chairs to sit down in while Tenenbaum sat on the bed.

She first started the conversation by talking about how she used to be a genetic scientist during the war. Something about Nazis and all of that stuff. And then she opened her suitcase and pulled out this bulbous hypodermic needle, with a small apple shaped jar, about the size of a human fist, filled with glowing red liquid.

"That was all I could get from that one slug" she said, embarrassed. It didn't matter. Our First question was:  
"What the Hell is that?" Tenenbaum continued.  
"This little sea slug has come along and glued together all the crazy ideas I've had since the war... it doesn't just heal damaged cells, it... resurrects them... I can bend the double helix... black can be reborn white, tall, short, weak, strong"

Once again Fontaine looked at the Jar with his vulture eyes. I didn't think too much of it. The thing seemed little more than strawberry jam mixed with glowing red paint. Tenenbaum was fucking with us.

"I managed to squeeze out only enough for one jar, but with this...the genetic code can be ours to write. We could change ourselves from the very first day of man, create the first...Adam."

I was getting tired of this bullshit and left to go back to the bar and get a drink, but Fontaine stopped me.

"What do you want with us, Ms. Tenenbaum?" he asked in his fake polite voice. I knew that I shouldn't interrupt the bastard. He was about to pull in a business deal

"I need money. All the other respected scientists have turned me away. I know you are a very busy man, Fontaine, but I promise: if you help we with this, You could be the one running things down here."

"All right then. I'll look into your little Sea Slug"

They shook hands and Tenenbaum left the room, still carrying the briefcase with her.

"She's damaged goods, all right." said Fontaine as he turned to me " Just like all those chumps they scraped out of them prison camps. But she's no crackpot... she's gonna make me the kinda scratch that'll have Ryan look like he's runnin' a paper route."

"So what's that got to do with us, Mr. Fontaine?" I asked.

"She just needs some supplies to get the ball rolling... and a friend to watch her back."

That night, I had a really fucked up dream.

I was in Arcadia, without any clothes, and weak. Incredibly weak. I could barely crawl around the place. I didn't really care that I was naked, since there was nobody else to see my lack of clothing. and Arcadia was in full bloom, a beautiful, lush green, interspersed by flashes of colors,: various fruits like peaches, plums, grapes, but curiously, no apples.

And then, across from me, I saw a tall tree with jars of that stuff Tenenbaum brought to me hanging on it. Next to the jars hung empty syringes.

Surrounding the tree was a large black sea slug, not unlike the one tenenbaum collected, coiled from the top of the tree to the tree's base. Standing at the base of the tree was also Maggie, the barmaid from The Fighting McDonagh's, who also naked, except she didn't seem to notice it. The Slug slithered up the tree and picked a jar from the tree and handed it to Maggie. She beckoned me to come towards her. And for some reason, I was eager to obey.

When I came up to her, she silently handed me the jar with a hypo. I placed the needle in the top of the jar, extracting out some of the glowing red goop inside of it. And almost instinctively, I traced the needle to the dull blue outline of a vein on my arm. Quickly, I thrusted the needle inside my arm and injected the goop inside of me.

Suddenly, I felt powerful. I could feel my body grow stronger was possessed by this indescribable Euphoria, where My Arms were as thick as the jar tree's trunk, and I was taller than the tree myself.

Suddenly, I was thrown out of Arcadia by some unseen force, right out of a window into the ocean, plunging into the watery abyss below.

I woke up in my bed, drenched with sweat, panting heavily.

I knew why Tenenbaum called that Sea Slug goop ADAM. It could very well be the fall of man.


	5. Rapture Evolving

_****_

October 28, 1950

It's a new Decade. And with it, comes a new Rapture

I have to admit it. Coming to Rapture in '48, while I was amazed by the mere existence of a city under the ocean, with its futuristic green lights, and bold Art-Deco architecture, after time, with constant exposure to the realities of my situation, the effect wore off. I still hadn't "made it big." matter of fact, even though I was making much more money than I did on the surface. Just trying to pay for my current lifestyle meant that I only ended up keeping a little more than I did topside.

Sure, it's hard for me to complain, since I actually was doing just as well topside as I did here. But I didn't come down here to do "just as well". Nobody did. Rapture was about getting the bigger score, and I was going to get it.

It was about the time that ADAM and EVE came to Rapture, when coming here finally seemed worth it.

It was January of this year, when I first saw Fontaine show off his plasmids...I couldn't believe it. Nobody in Rapture could believe it. Fontaine's demonstrators were hurling lightning bolts, fireballs, ice. One guy even shot bees out of his arms. Bees! Fontaine's guys, that kraut Tenenbaum, and some chink called Suchong, were talking about the science behind it. Genetic modification this, and stem cells that, but it didn't seem like science. More like sorcery.

And so came Fontaine Futuristics. Within a couple of months, Fontaine created a massive business empire that only rivaled Andrew Ryan himself. I mean, EVERYONE uses plasmids. If you were to take a walk around Rapture, you could see it: Ice cream vendors using "Winter Blast" to keep their goods frosty, Engineers and inventors using "Electro-Bolt" to get machines running, and everyone used "Incinerate!" to light their cigarettes or fireplaces. It was as if we had a whole convention of superheroes under the sea.

Best of all, since Fontaine was busy running the plasmid business, it meant that I was given the reins to the Fisheries and The Smuggling Ring. I wasn't Fontaine's #1 smuggler anymore. Now, I ran the whole damn operation.

The very day that Fontaine was able to leave the fisheries to me, sometime in February, I went to Sophia Salon in Fort Frolic, best described as Las Vegas crammed to the size of a shopping mall, to buy a three-piece suit. With its black vest, pinstripe pants and jacket, white shirt, and navy blue tie, I didn't look too much like a fisherman. More like a gangster. Awfully fitting for the kind of work I was doing.

I moved out of the McDonagh's as well. After saving up some money, I managed to buy my self an apartment in Athena's Glory, one of the Classiest joints in Rapture. The place seemed more like a small House than an apartment. It had a massive living room, a small office/ bedroom, a kitchen, and a bedroom.

My favorite part of the apartment was this glass bubble balcony that jutted out of the apartment. First time I moved in, I remember sitting on a chair there with a cigarette in my hand and watching the fish go by, when this whale crossed my window. I saw him look at me, and it seemed to be curious of the unknown creature that peered out on him, like a little boy fixing his gaze on an Ant. It let out a deep, reverberating bellow, then swam away.

But life wasn't all sunshine and roses of course. There was this one time that I got a visit from Fontaine.

I was sitting in the Fontaine Fisheries Office, a small, well lit room with a large desk, some filing cabinets, and a few chairs. I dressed in my three-piece suit. Fontaine came in, wearing his jet black suit (he started wearing those since he got rich) and carrying a briefcase.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Fontaine?" I asked with a wide grin plastered across my face.

"Jack, I want to ask a favor from you." he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of me. "you know the boxing ring in the McDonagh's?" he asked

"sure." I replied. I sometimes saw the little boxing matches it had, and since gambling was legal here, I often made a wager or two.

"That's good." replied Fontaine. He opened up the suitcase, which held a glowing blue gene tonic jar marked "Sportsboost" and a hypo. He then handed me a picture of a young, thin colored man "because I'm thinking about testing out a product. There's this up and coming boxer you need to visit, a Wallace Clay, who's gonna fight The Flying Dutchman. Word is, a lot of people are betting on him losing."

I could understand why. David "The Flying Dutchman" Van Buren was one of the best boxers in Rapture. Even the most seasoned Fighters would have a hard time against that, let alone a novice.

"So, you think your little wonder drug is gonna tip the scales in Clay's favor?" I asked skeptically. Sure, Adam could do a lot of things, but could it really outmatch years of hard-earned skill?

"It better. I've bet a lot of many on this guy, so if this doesn't work, I'm fucked." Fontaine pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, which I promptly lit with my lighter. Fontaine didn't use plasmids, even though he sold the damn things, and I never touched them for my own reasons.

"You've got an hour. Clay has an Apartment in Artemis Suites. Convince him to splice up for the fight. If all goes well, I'll give you a cut of the winnings." Fontaine shook my hand before he got up to leave.

"Sure thing, Mr. Fontaine." I said as took the briefcase. I pulled out a bottle of Old Tom Whiskey and took a gulp of the stuff. I bribed Rapture Port Authority to let me get some booze for the smuggling crew. It kept them happy, and that's the most we need for our operation.

I picked up the Suitcase and headed to the Atlantic Express, the underwater Railway system that connected Rapture, to Apollo Square.

Artemis Suites was a working class neighborhood right across from Olympus heights. It was located near Apollo Square, one of Rapture's main transportation hubs. It's only a little better than one of those 19th century tenement houses my Dad's family used to live in. (my mother, Constanza Rosalino, managed to get this one room apartments. Wasn't much better, though.)

Anyways, when. I reached the suites, I asked around for Wallace Clay. I was directed through crowded floors of people, filled with bunk beds, group kitchens, and communal bathrooms. Passing from one of the crowded room to another when I came across Clay. He was in a plain white collared shirt, with khaki trousers and black suspenders. He was practicing his jab and right hook. Wasn't too bad actually. You'd wonder if the guy really needed to splice for a fight.

'"Mr. Clay?" I asked politely as I approached him. Clay turned around and scowled at me.

"And you are?" he stopped shadowboxing and walked towards me.

"Jack Martin," I replied, taking a seat on his bed. "Mr. Fontaine sent me. He wants to help you with your match tonight." at that point in time, I opened up the suitcase and shows him the gene tonic.

"And why does Mr. Fontaine think he needs to send me some two bit salesman with a wonder drug for me to win the match."

"Because with ADAM, Rapture's evolving. You gotta keep up with the game." Clay gingerly picked up the Gene tonic with his left hand and curled his right hand around the hypo.

"I don't know about this splicing shit, man." His face had an apprehensive look on it, and he stared at the hypo as though it was a polio shot.

"Trust me, This stuff is Rocky Marciano in a needle."

"So if I take it, I'll turn into some kinda Guinea?"

"Better. At least, better than The Flying Dutchman."

That one bit managed to satisfy him. The fear melted from his face, and he regarded the tonic in his arms as though it was the holy grail.

"All right. As long as I can take that Dyke Jumper." He and I shook hands, and I left for the McDonagh's.

It would only be a short while before the match started, so I hung around the bar, hoping to get drunk enough to make a wager for Clay. And sure enough, I met Maggie (I found out her last name was Desmond) there. She and I had a...special relationship. I hired her as our main distributor of topside alcohol, along with a go-between for customers interested in a few deliveries. But to be honest, I hoped to make our relationship a little more special.

"Hi Maggie," I said softly, my eyes a few inches below her face.  
"Hello, Handsome." She giggled back with her girlish voice. "What will it be"  
"Get me some Old Tom Whiskey. On the Rocks" I replied.  
"The Kind you get on the surface? You know, your boss says to never mix business with pleasure." Maggie poured a bottle of the stuff into a tumbler. She shot a few ice cubes into the drink with Winter Blast, then handed it to me. I took a swig of it, then set the glass down.

I don't know what was in that Alcohol that made me ask, but before I knew it, the words were coming out of my mouth:

"Hey, Maggie. Our you working next Saturday?" Maggie put down the glass she was polishing and looked at me sharply

"What, are you looking to take a nice girl like me away from this place?" her voice took on this deeper, more mature, almost sultry tone that I never heard from her before.

"No Ma'am," I replied a little nervously. "I was only hoping to take you out."

She smiled at me in a way that seemed to say "I love it when you're so naive".

"Where do you want to go, hotshot?"

"Fleet Hall?" I actually hadn't thought that far.

"Okay. I'll meet you in the bar next week."

At that point, the boxing match was starting up, so I went to the ring.

The Flying Dutchman was this tall, muscular guy, with bright blue eyes, a square face. His chiseled features made him seem more like a rock than a man. Clay was more lithe and sinewy. As both men stood shirtless and bare-knuckled in the ring, I could feel the tension in the air a they sized each other up.

"Flying Dutchman? As in "Flying out of the ring when I'm through with you?"

"Clay, huh? I guess that's what your chin's made out of. I'm gonna enjoy pounding you outta shape."

and after that trash-talking, the match began.

Both boxers began circling each other like a pair of wolves, eager for taking each other down. The air was thick with Anticipation as each boxer waited for the other to throw the first punch. And then, The Dutchman started the fight.

Clay wasn't ready for it. That haymaker The Dutchman sent him, knocked him backwards, and The Dutchman followed up with a few more punches. Clay shook like a tree in the breeze, desperately struggling to gain his footing. But once he got a hold of himself, he dodged The Dutchman's next punch, much to to The Dutchman's surprise. Then Clay delivered a flurry of punches, faster than what any normal man. His arms were brown blurs as they overwhelmed The Dutchman in all directions. When Clay relented, the Dutchman Collapsed onto the ground.

There wasn't any cheering. Not even a single sound. Just a disquieting silence as the crowd stared in awed fascination.

Clay grabbed his shirt, which was hanging on the ring, and hastily put it on. He was walking fiercely towards me with a frenzied, wild animal look in his eye.

"You sonuvabitch!" he shouted. He then started crying "I killed him. I fucking killed him!"

"Take it Easy" I said. I was trying to get the guy to calm down before he spilled the beans about his splicing

"take a look at his face. Take a look at his Goddamned Face!"

I did. The Flying Dutchman's face was a splotchy purple color. Blood seemed to pour out of all directions of his face, nose, mouth, even his ears. I don't know whether he was dead or not, but he definitely didn't seem okay. I don't know if he would ever be after that match

"Go home, clay." I said curtly. He stopped balling then, resolving instead to sniffle intermittently. "The McDonagh's going to pay you for the match. And it's only accident. You didn't know he would end up that way. I didn't know he would end up that way...Look, if anyone gives you any trouble, call me." I scrawled my phone number on a bit of paper with a pencil stub in my pocket. "I'll get you the best damned lawyer I can find in Rapture. I'll even pull one from topside if I need to."  
"Thank you." said Clay, too tired for anger or gratitude. He then shuffled way, into the crowd.

Man. What the Hell did I get myself into?


	6. Confessions

November 6th, 1950

Happy Rapture Day. That's the closest thing this city had to a national holiday, Basically, it was the day when Ryan first established this fish tank, though the city's been expanding for the past four years. Maggie had something come up two days ago, so we set the date for today. All the more time for me to prepare.

I got tickets to A Sander Cohen show in Fleet hall. Apparently the guy was putting on a big show for the holiday.

Isn't it great to be rich?

But I couldn't help but think about Clay and his boxing match. He actually did off The Flying Dutchman, though nobody harassed him for it. The guy didn't know what ADAM was capable of. Worse, I didn't know what he was capable of, and I talked him into using it.

You know why I don't use ADAM? I already went over my head with one drug. Don't need to do it with another.

I used to be a morphine addict during the war.

The first time I had Army grade morphine was after I had my first bullet.

It was a single round from a German MP40, that lodged itself in my Arm which first got me on the track. Didn't shatter any bones or anything, so it only took a few weeks to heal. But I was hooked. Morphine was the only bit of heaven I ever got in a hell of a war. Well that, and nailing French hookers, but I digress.

Had to kiss my Captain Foley's ass for a Couple of weeks , but he finally reassigned me with protecting the Medic. PFC Marty Pulaski. Decent enough Polack. He was tall, blonde haired, and blue eyed, with Freckles splashed across his round, baby like face. He really hated the krauts for invading Poland, but since he couldn't shoot for shit, he became a medic. A pretty damn good one too. I remember that he was the one who pulled the bullets out of my Arm.

Once, I stole a whole bunch of his Morphine Syrettes.

It was 1945. We were in Belgium in the middle of winter, a little while before the battle of Bulge. We were on a patrol, when we were surprised by a German scouting party. A few shots were fired as we engaged the Nazis. But then they stated pounding us with mortars. As we ran, Pulaski had a mortar land right beside him. Fucked up both of his legs.

The guy was crying, bawling his eyes out. He was groping savagely around for a Syrette. Something to stop the pain.

He was a goner, no doubt about it. He couldn't walk, and even if I carried him, he would have bled to death by the time I got him back.

So I pulled a Luger Pistol off a dead German and aimed it at his head. The corner's of the guy's mouth pulled up in a weak smile. He even whispered a soft "thank you" as I blew his brains out.

When I got out of the service, I tried to quit. Three days of hell, pissing and shitting all over the place, curled up in a ball. It was worse than the entire war altogether. But I was clean. and I made damn sure to stay clean.  
But enough of that. Lemme talk about my date.  
I was thinking about coming in my suit, but Maggie saw me in that every way, so I had to pick out something a bit more fresh. I settled with a Tuxedo. The thing was stiff and a little uncomfortable, but damn, did I look good.  
When I met Maggie at the Bar, she was wearing another cocktail dress, except this one was midnight blue. She smiled shyly at me, as though embarrassed at how well dressed I was compared to her.  
"Hello Handsome" she said "you ready to see the show?"

I put my arm around her.

"Sure. Let's go."

I took the Atlantic Express to Fort Frolic. And there, we still had a little bit of time before the show started so, we walked around the Fort.

I could tell Maggie was uncomfortable with only coming in that simple dress while I was in a Tux, so I took her to Sophia Salon to pick out something better to wear. There, she got this flowing black Evening gown with pearls sewn in the neck, complete with long white gloves. Her hair was let down in elegant ringlets along her back. She looked beautiful.

a little while later, we were sitting in the lobby outside of Fleet hall, catching a drink before the show.  
"So..." My voice trailed off as I tried to find out what I wanted to say "What brought you down here?"  
" I really had no where else to go. Both my parents kicked the bucket, car crash or something. And I had to live in this lousy orphanage. When I got older, I wanted to act. So I ran away from Chicago to New York City, thinking I could go on broadway. Instead, I jut ended up as a lousy Barmaid." she sniffled a little but "When I came down here, I thought things would work out for me. That I'd finally get me big break. "'Cept now I'm just doing the same shit I've always been doing, but now it's at the bottom of the sea."

"I was pretty broke, too." I started. "my Mom and Dad had to live in this shithole of an apartment. My Father died shortly before I went to the War." Maggie looked at me.

"You fought in the war?" she asked.

"Yeah. My father fought in World War I. Fight the Germans, he did. It was his death, that made me want to go fight in the war. More than the fact I wanted to be a hero, I wanted to make the guy proud. Have something to live up for. My mother tried to talk me out of it, saying that she didn't want to lose another person right after the other, but I was too damn stupid to listen. She croaked shortly after I went to boot camp."

"Poor guy. What happened to you after you got back?"

"I had nothing left to come back to, so I started working for the guy my boss used to work for, Frank Fontaine. When he left for Rapture, I had no other choice but go with him."

"At least things worked out for you," said Maggie bitterly.  
"Hey, I've got one of the riskiest jobs in Rapture. If anyone traces my men back here, Rapture's done for. More importantly, if Ryan finds traces our business back to us, I'm done for. And I don't think It's going to be quick."

But Maggie still didn't look convinced

"Maggie, Just because my big break came for me doesn't mean yours isn't going to come for you. Give it time, I promise things will turn out good."

"Easy for you to say." she retorted

We both went into the theatre, a large, spacious room, with thousands of ornate red Chairs opposite to a Gigantic stage that took up the entire wall. Many other people were sitting there, splicing up with EVE hypos. (EVE was basically this drug that they made from EVE that kept your plasmids running, I read an Article that said that Eve was supposed to "replenish the new ADAM-produced biological structures created from Plasmids" or some bullshit like that). Seeing all the splicing going on around me made me think of Wallace Clay, so I pulled out a smoke to take my mind off of it. As I fumbled around for my lighter, Maggie chuckled and flicked out a finger, a small flame glowing at the tip of it, which i promptly used.

"You don't splice?" she said, laughing.  
"course not. God already have me what I needed. I don't need to change it."

At that point in time, the show began.


	7. New Girl in Town

February 13th, 1951

In Rapture, it seemed that Ryan would always be top dog.

I mean, he built the damn the city. Ryan Industries own the majority of Rapture's essentials: heat, power, security forces, even the air! Sure, Fontaine's ADAM business was huge, specially since he had a monopoly on superpowers, but how're you gonna beat a guy who owns the air you breathe?

And as for ideologies, mostly everyone bought into Ryan's "Great Chain" brouhaha. Not everybody made it big down here, but there were enough success stories to keep up hope. I was practically one of those success stories. But then again, I had to play dirty. It was real hard to get big in Rapture by the book

However, some people cried for some "Great Psychiatrist" to come help them deal with the isolation and lack of sunshine. Quite frankly, I think its just that they needed someone to talk to. Somebody who wasn't trying to make more money than them.

That's why, November of last year, Sofia Lamb came to town.

She was this limey shrink Ryan called down to shut up the sad saps who wanted someone to cry to. And there must've been a lot of them, because damn, was she popular. She even had her own little place, Dionysus Park I think it was.

The only real problem was that, Lamb was a fuckin' pinko. Legit. She believed in this "triage imperative" shit, greater good and everything. I'd even go to some of her poker games just because I knew she'd let me win. Easy cash on a Saturday night. Ryan wasn't too fond of it, though . He was pretty pissed off that he brought a "parasite" into Rapture. He built it at the bottom of the ocean to get away from those damned people. Lamb knew she was pissing him off. And the Woman had the balls to have Ryan's in a vice grip. Everybody knew there was a power struggle in the city. It was only a question of who was going to win.

Maggie loved this woman. Since she grew up with no family or home to speak of, the idea of Lamb's "Rapture Family" as Lamb called it, was appealing. She would often drag me down to Dionysus Park to get an audience with that woman. Like this one time, in January where we went to hear a reading of her upcoming book.

Although Bathyspheres were the rage in Rapture nowadays, Lamb didn't have one installed in Dionysus Park, so we had to take a train to get the

"Isn't it beautiful?" Maggie Asked Dreamily. She was wearing A white mink Coat and pillbox hat. She was one hell of a girl, but the only thing she loved more than me was my wallet.

"...Yeah. I replied. Looking around at Dionysus Park, I saw its large, lush Atrium, centerpieced by two embracing statues. Lot's of people compared the Park to Arcadia, but that wasn't really how I felt. Dionysus Park held more..Atmosphere. There was a sense of sublime enlightenment, as if you entered the Garden of Eden. Arcadia wasn't like that. It was just a regular park, peace and quiet. That's probably why I like Arcadia better.

Anyway, we crosse the Atrium, covered in green plant life, to get to the Triton Theatre. That's where Lamb was showing of her book. Maggie bought us our tickets, and we entered the theatre.

The joint was packed. All sorts of people came to see Lamb; poor, rich, black, white. Many of them were wearing these strange, silver butterfly brooches. Their faces were calm, stoic masks of serenity, one which Maggie was wearing as well.

When Lamb came up to a podium on the stage, she was wearing a white dress and a blue jacket. She was tall, pale, and thin, with black, cat eye glasses. Her face was expressionless, and her bright blue eyes looked at the crowd with a satiated calmness. I thought of Ryan, in his expensive suits, with his chiseled, scowling face, thin black mustache, and black eyes, burning with an intense manic passion. Ryan and Lamb were two sides of the same coin, both bound by their own set of ideals.

She pulled out a stack of paper, presumably an excerpt of her book.

And she began to read.

"This is not a sermon," her voice was calm, clear, and clinical. I once again thought of Ryan's impassioned, self-righteous bombast. "I offer you no insight. Every word I speak, you already know."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I felt like I was in Church. My mother was one big Catholic, and always dragged me into Saint Cecelia's to hear the sermons.

"Why faith? Is the Rapture Family religious, or secular? The question is irrelevant. Observe instead our mutualism. Beneath the myth, God is just a name for our moral duty to others. It is that impulse which unites the collective. Faith is that which lives on. Snuffing it out merely spreads the blaze."

And to see the crowd with its stoic calm, I thought of Andrew Ryan's Rallies. When his people cheered or them, they blustered and howled like frenzied animals, sharing his mania, drunk on their own self-adoration. But Lamb...I found her crowds chilling in their silence. And that was when I thought that this new girl in town might be changing the way things are run down here.

But I was wrong.

Because Fontaine later called me up on my telephone, and told me to meet him in his office at Fontaine Futuristics.

I took the bathysphere there, and went up to the second floor to See Fontaine. A Thin, black haired secretary in a white blouse and black skirt chewed a pencil as she looked up to me and said monotonously "Name?"

"Jack Martin, miss." I replied "I believe I have an appointment with Mr. Fontaine."

"Come right in." she replied humorlessly.

Fontaine's office was Rich and Ornately decorated, with Hardwood Floors, a giant bear statue, and tall glass windows. On the left was a wall with a strange boar's head peeking out of it.

Across from me was Fontaine, sitting at his desk, pouring out a glass of Arcadia Merlot.

"This Lamb twist went after Ryan all cockeyed. Solidarity angle was smart at first. Poorhouses and breadlines? High-grade bunko. And the religious rights debate - hahahaha! Gotta wonder if she staged it just to watch Ryan squirm up there in his monkey suit. Lamb's only problem is she really buys into the whole song an' dance! Savin' the world - hah! Rapture just ain't her town."

Fontaine needed to cut to the chase. The bastard was never the Bleeding heart type.

"So what's that got to do with us?" I asked. I sat down in the chair as Fontaine poured me a glass of wine.

"I figure it's time to open up the charity angle to the professionals."

And that's how we opened up Fontaine's Home For the Poor.

I thought it was some kind of publicity stunt, to sort've guilt people into buying plasmids. Even though this was the city that "where the great would not be constrained by the small.," you couldn't stop people from caring about their fellow men. But this was more insidious. Fontaine was building public support for himself. More importantly, he was discrediting Ryan.

Ryan wasn't top dog anymore. There's a power play going on in Rapture, but it's not lamb who was making the first move. It's Fontaine.


	8. RIP, Timmy H

****

March 9th, 1957

Things were going great.

The Fontaine poorhouses were a huge success. With each succeeding year, we Had more and people under our roofs. Wasn't too bad actually. We gave them decent food (I've eaten it myself. Wasn't worse than the food I ate growing up.) we gave them warm beds and a place to piss and shit. We even Rationed some ADAM for them to splice, though this was more as a way for us to test out our new Plasmids then anything out of good will. It cleaned up Fontaine Futuristics's public image, and made the plasmid production process grow a lot cheaper.

Maggie and I got married in March of 1954. She used to live in the McDonagh's but after we for married, she moved in with me in the Apartment. She finally made it big. It wasn't starring in Sander Cohen's latest movie, but it would do for her right now.

But what worried me now was Ryan.

Over the past couple of years, Ryan's been trying to cut down on the plasmid business. Sure there were the "nasty side effects" of splicing such as madness and death, but Ryan was too much of a capitalist to give a damn. This was about "his great chain."

He knew the what the poorhouses were for: they were "parasite factories" as he called them. They provided people the means and the motives to go after Ryan's guys. In 1952, when the cops came after some protesting "Fontaine workers", they all got shocked to death. In 1955, one guy used telekinesis to put a screwdriver in one of Bill McDonagh' guys. Ryan could tell that his "Great Chain" was being pulled away from him.

And that's why he started to pull back.

On the first day of 1957, Andrew Ryan instituted the death penalty for smugglers in Rapture.

And then there were the riots. Do you know what a spliced up riot looks like? It's a bunch of people storming Hephaestus trying to kick Ryan himself in the ass, only to get mowed down by His Gorillas' tommy guns, all the while the splicers are shooting out fireballs, lightning bolts, angry bees, ice clouds, you get the picture. Every once in a while, you'd come across a dead body in the streets. Too bad no one cleans them up.

And he's got more quiet ways to get rid of people. He can make them just disappear. As If they never came to Rapture. He did that to Sofia Lamb in 1956. And people never remember her. And maybe they don't want to. They've already disappeared from the surface. Disappearing from Rapture would seem like disappearing for real.

And what about us? the smugglers? We also had to keep a low profile. We couldn't do as much business anymore. Cash was drying up fast. And Fontaine knew it. He was squeezing more and more out of the ring, almost 80% of the cut! But things were only going to go from bad to worse.

because today, Timoteo Hernandez disappeared.

I was sitting at the Fontaine fisheries office, drinking like a fish. The fisheries were making decent money, but not enough to support me and my wife. Sure I saved up cash in the bak, but even that's gonna go.

and then Peach Wilkins came to me, looking like he just saw the devil, and said  
"They took Timmy H!"

"Zoot suit?!" I shouted. We called Timmy that because like many spics, he loved wearing those getups.

"Yeah, he's been missing for three days!" last I heard, some Mick policeman picked him up."

"Son of a bitch." I growled, I reached into my desk drawer to pull out a pistol, a Rapture made Webley revolver copy, 'cept this one was a custom job. Barrel was shortened down into a snubnose for easy concealment. Just in case somebody got the drop on me.

I broke open the revolver and plunked a clip into the cylinder, before flipping it back shut with a clicking sound. I cocked the hammer and gently pushed it into the jacket pocket of my suit.

"Where are you going with that?" asked Peach. But he knew that shit was going down.

"To find Timmy, and to give the lousy bastard who took him a piece of my mind." I rushed out of the fisheries. With a brisk walk.

I liked poor guy works as a bartender in the McDonagh's, alongside Doing a little smuggling on the side. He grew up with an absurdly religious mother, like mine, and we sorta bonded over how Catholicism was shoved down our was the one who managed the trade of bibles and crucifixes in Rapture, saying that he'd make his momma proud by "spreading the faith" as well as making a buck or two off of it.

Timmy was also one hell of a dancer. I remember when we'd go to one of the parties at this one joint, The Big Dipper, and he had all the women there going nuts. He could pick up any girl he wanted, even a white broad. (down in Rapture, nobody really cares about anything. You could screw a dog and no one would give a shit.) he and Maggie used to date during her days as a Barmaid, and he'd use that to get my goat, until Maggie mentioned the size of his pecker, or rather, the lack of it. Now, I wasn't much bigger, but below the belt, every extra inch counts.

It didn't take me too long to find Timmy. Or more accurately, what was left of him.

I discovered a small holding cell below the fisheries, held shut by a number lock. In it was a bench, a clip of Tommy Gun rounds, and a burnt-up corpse connected to a battery, soaking under a small waterfall. The battery was sitting on a crate marked by a smudged black handprint. A crate with bibles and crucifixes spilling out of it.

And that was what happened to Timmy H.

"FUCK!" I shouted out loud pounding my fists against the metal bars. I was too angry to think straight. All I could think about was how those bastards dragged him underneath the water, choking and sputtering, and then left him to fry. Ryan couldn't do that. This wasn't the goddamned Soviet Union or Nazi Germany. This was Rapture! he dragged us down here because he didn't want big government. And now he's sending his gestapo to torture bartenders?!

And then, as my anger subsided, it was replaced by fear. Cold, sweating fear. Because I realized that Ryan could pull shit like this on us. It didn't matter whether the guy built a city to get away from "law and god" as he once put it. Ryan was the fucking king of Rapture. And there isn't any Goddamn UN down here to back us up. We were alone in Rapture.

So I thought, it's time that we fought back.

I decided to come home early that day. Told the rest of the guys there to take the day off, they were gonna get payed for it.

When I reached my apartment. Maggie was cooking something in the kitchen. threw my coat and hat in the couch in the living, and threw my vest down with it. "Hey Maggie." I said weakly, walking up to her and giving her a kiss.

Maggie was wearing a salmon pink dress, and her hair was tied up in a bun. I looked in the pot to see she was boiling pasta, and there was a pan filled with red marinara sauce.

"Hey handsome." she said, smiling flirtatiously. "why are you home so early? Usually I don't see you until way later."

"I was feelin tired. Whatcha cooking? It looks delicious."

"Spaghetti in Marinara sauce. Your favorite."

And my stomach was watering.

I went into the kitchen and reached into the fridge and pulled out an Old Harbinger beer and gulped it down. I sat down on the kitchen table and pulled out some Oxford Club cigarettes. Ifumbled around for the lighter that I was constantly losing. After I found it in my back pocket, I put the cigarette between my lips and lit it. As I took a long drag, I thought about what I what my next move was.

It dawned on me now that I was in real danger. I mean, sure, I could give up the smuggling business and be a legitimate businessman. But they killed Zoot Suit just because he sold a couple of bibles. I was the big boss. It was only a matter of time before they'd close in on me. And they were gonna hang me, no questions asked. I don't wanna die. But I'm not too keen on getting my hand dirty.

I was stupid. Stupid to think that it wasn't gonna catch up to me.

"Maggie. I think things have gotten very serious for me." I said solemnly. Maggie turned of the stove, and sat down beside me, brushing my clothes aside.  
"What happened?" she asked, her expression darkening. I could feel those green eyes of her peering into my brown ones, staring into the very pita of my soul.

"Timmy Hernandez is dead. Ryan's men killed him."

A look of horror crossed Maggie's face. Her hands slowly came up and covered her mouth.

"Oh my god. " she said. "Jack, if they find out about you...they're gonna crucify you." her voice was soft and tense. I was too tired to think.

"It looks like we've got to push back." I replied. I reached for the telephone on a small table beside the clutch. As I stuck my finger in the dial to call Fontaine's number, I held no illusions about what was going to happen. This was gonna be a long hard struggle between the two indomitable titans of Rapture, Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine.

And I was gonna be pulled right into it.


	9. Power to The People

****

June 1st, 1957

Power to the people. That's the Fontaine motto nowadays.

The very next day, right after Timmy H. Was electrocuted, I met with Fontaine to see what our response would be.

Fontaine and I met in the Fisheries' office, wearing his jet black suit. The room was filled with smoke from our cigarettes. We were sitting across from each other, divided by my desk.

"So We're starting to get under that bastard's skin, huh?" growled Fontaine. He smirked as he gulped a mouthful of gin from a highball glass sitting in front of him. "Well, if Ryan's playing dirty, we gotta play dirtier, huh Jack?"

"But this isn't some little mob war, Fontaine." I replied, drinking a glass of Vodka instead. The stuff was s'posed to have no smell, and I didn't want Maggie to know how much I'd been drinking. "We're about to take on the biggest corporation in Rapture. Ryan owns the city! He's got his so-called security forces to do his dirty work. He can run the council without anyone telling him what to do."

"We've got the ADAM and a lot of pissed of little chumps to splice it."

"Well, Fontaine, tell that yellow egghead bastard you've got working for you to cook up something good. And fast."

Fontaine smiled "I got a lot more than a slanty-eyed mad scientist to throw a monkey wrench in Ryan's operation."

And this was how I got acquainted with Neel Chandra.

He was a tall, thin Indian man from Manhattan (get this, his parents moved to Frisco in 1919 and traveled all the way east to NYC.) He had a thin, triangular nose, straight black hair, and black, fierce looking eyes. He was young, in his early 20s, but according to Fontaine, the guy was an engineering genius. His father was this one hotshot who owned "Chandra Metals" a steel making company working for Ryan Industries. He married a white woman in Rapture, a redhead named Christina De La Plante, whose hardware chain was made with Chandra Metal. (Like I said, you could screw a dog in Rapture, and nobody would give a shit.)

We first met in a Fontaine Futuristics Board Room, a large Room, dominated by a long rectangular table, surrounding by black leather office chairs. At the end farthest from the door, right in front of tall rectangular windows that opened up into the sea, sat Frank Fontaine in his jet-black suit, while at each side sat myself, wearing my three-piece suit, but Chandra came only in a plain, white collared shirt and khaki trousers.  
He was chewing on a pencil stub. In front of him were a couple of papers with strange schematics drawn out in front of them.

"Alright, Mr. Fontaine, you said you wanted to take on Andrew Ryan himself, the Rajah of Rapture?" his voice was even and cordial, but I could tell there was a hint of contempt in it.

I turned to Fontaine and gave him a look that said "Is this brownie really s'posed I help us?"

and he gave me a look back that said "you need to be more patient."

Chandra continued chewing pensively on the stub, then swapped it out for a cigarette. A fireball formed in his hand, which he used to light the fag.

"Well, I'd say you're absolutely batshit, but I think it's kinda obvious."

Chandra's face suddenly lit up, as though somebody shoved a live battery up his ass.

"you know, the balances are actually tipped in our favor." he said. "Rapture's full of discontent, broken laymen who're getting throttled by Ryan's great chain. They're mad as hell at Ryan. The schmuck's sitting on a powder keg. All we got to do is light a match."

"Power to the People." chuckled Fontaine. "That sound's pretty marketable."

Chandra went on. I saw some of his crazy contraptions, which looked like weird weapon upgrades, like a side attachment that quadrupled a pistol's clip size, a set of gears to make a pump-action shotgun shoot semi-automatic. And then he had designs for a "vending machine" that turned all the rubbish you could find in Rapture into ammunition.

"We've already got the plasmid market cornered, but if you want to lock horns with Ryan's highly trained, well-funded security, you're gonna need some serious firepower."

And so, this was how the power to the people machines and U-invent was formed.

You had to hand it to Chandra. You could give the guy the most useless shit lying around Rapture, and he'd find a way to make it useful. He had an innate resourcefulness, an uncanny ability to see things for more than what they were.

"They're no such thing as worthless in my dictionary," he once told me. "When your down here, every little thing counts,"

Couple of weeks ago, we found out just how useful Fontaine's little "Power to the People" scheme really was.

It was in the middle of May, and I was taking care of one of the poorhouses (Fontaine sent a guy there every now and then for good publicity). Sure enough Chandra also tagged along because he wanted to see how his U-invents and power to the people weapon upgrade machines really worked.

We were sitting in the kitchen in one of the top floors, doling out bread and soup to the inhabitants. In the crowded, noisy tenements, many of them were splicing, or eyeing the strange, "weapons" made by Chandra as though they were toys. The things did seem a little strange, in their defense. Some of them had exploding sardine cans to be used as grenades, and a mangled corpse of a vacuum cleaner designed to shoot anything "from napalm to nitrogen" as Chandra put it.

"You know, Marty," started Chandra as he broke off a chunk of bread for a grubby old man with few teeth, "Your boss may be an asshole, and a goddamned crook, but at least he's doing one thing right for these people."

"What's that?" I asked casually as I lit a cigarette.

"He's giving them something to defend themselves. Ryan thinks he's making some "last bastion for the free man?" Bullshit. Look at these people, Marty. The only freedom they had is the freedom to starve. The freedom to get screwed over by Ryan and that Fat Bastard Sinclair. Rapture isn't a "utopia"; it's a fucking jungle! But what we're doing is evening the playing field. Giving these downtrodden, bitter, brave men a chance to fight the real 'parasites' in this town."

As I saw the genuine conviction in Chandra's eyes, I felt a twinge of envy. A voice from deep inside of me seemed to ask "what about you, Jack Martin? what do you believe in?"

And much to my dismay I could only reply "Not much, really."

my thoughts were interrupted when a woman outside the poorhouse called out "we've got company!"

I felt for that little pistol in my suit pocket, grasping its familiar bulge.

"wait here" I told Chandra. He nodded in assent.

I walked outside the poorhouse, down the rickety stairs, to get acquainted with who decided to drop by tonight.

it was a large group of Ryan Security men, carrying tommy guns and shotguns. With their large, loose uniforms and brass buttons they were a recognizable and feared force in Rapture. They even looked like storm troopers.

a few of the other bums came out beside me, including the boxer from yesteryear, Wallace Clay. The guy was now the size of a gorilla from all that splicing he did for boxing. Now he's down and out. But despite that, the he's really friendly. Like a gentle giant.

"Evening officers," I said courteously. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I was trying to fake a smile as best as I could.

"Hello Mr. Martin" replied an old gentleman with a thick white handlebar mustache. He was faking a smile as well, because he knew that we were one step away from a blood bath. "Security Chief Sullivan sent is here to do a little...check up on your facilities"

I knew it. this was a goddamned raid

"And Why does Mr. Sullivan think that 'our facilities' require any checking up?" "The poorhouses aren't doing anything subversive. Mr. Fontaine isn't Sofia Lamb"

The security officer's face was a mask of flesh "you just can't be too careful here. Just consider it as us dropping by to see how Rapture's less fortunate are doing."

"I don't like the looks of these guys" growled Clay.

"Shaddup, you goddamned ape!" shouted a cruel-faced blonde.

Clay, not sure whether the insult was towards his race or his size, primed himself up for a charge

"you blue-coated, scrawny, honky MUTHAFUCKA!" he shouted as he charged towards the blonde cop. The cop panicked and fired his shotgun at Clay. The man stopped dead in his tracks, knocked back by the kinetic impact of the buckshot. He was gripping a growing red stain on his chest.

"Dammit," he gasped weakly as he keeled over.

There was a long painful silence, suddenly penetrated by the crowd slowly exiting the poor house to see the commotion. Their eyes shifted silently to Clay's body, then to the policemen, still pointing his smoking shotgun at it.

"...Shit." I whispered under my breath.

And the crowd came to life, a roaring, angry wave of splicers, armed with plasmids, upgraded guns, bombs, and bludgeons.

the policemen opened fire, unleashing a deadly cloud of lead on their attackers, but that was pissing in the wind. A fireball struck one Cop in the face, and he went down screaming. Another was frozen solid , then shattered to bits by the swing of a lead pipe. The security forces may have been better trained, but they were no match semi-automatic shotguns thay fired twice as fast as the cops's ones, or pistols that held four times as many bullets. I was shooting as well, firing my snubnose into the melee with steady, even shots, trying to stay clear of the angry mob. I hadn't fired a gun in ten years, but once you start shooting, it all comes back to you.

The air was thick with the screams of human voices and firearms, melding together in a symphony of violence. My nose was assaulted by the smells of blood and gunsmoke and burning flesh. And since there was no cover in the open, spacious square, every one was out in the open. All you could do was keep shooting and praying the guy in front of you got shot first.

after somebody threw a bomb into the fighting throng, the fighting finally subsided. The security team, or rather, what was left of it, scrambled out of Hestia. We could have mopped the floor with them, but we were pretty beat ourselves.

I assessed the damage done. The ground was littered with dead bodies, quiet a few of the m smoldering or exploded. Small fires burned in some places, and blood stained the floor in large, irregular splotches.

"Hey." cried out a voice weakly. It was Wallace Clay, who miraculously survived the gunshot. "could you get me some bandages or something?"  
"Get this man a first aid kit!" I shouted to the poorhouse. A few moments later, somebody came out with a white, metal box. I flipped it open and pulled out a pistol shaped contraption with a canister filled with glowing red liquid. I snapped the canister on top of the "pistol" and injected it into Clay's arm. He shook a little bit, then let out a sigh of relief before stand up. As he got to his feet, the buckshot rolled out of his shirt onto the ground. He examined himself.

"Look," he said in disgust. "Bastards ruined one of my best shirts."

We looked for more of the dead or wounded treating the wounded the best we could, or burning the corpses whether they weren't already on fire.

And soon, after the violence, we went on with our day. It was as if the little fight didn't even happen.

Lemme tell you, the people now have power, but what'll come with it?


	10. The Final Problem

September 12th, 1958

There. I've done it. I hope I ended this...

Ever since that skirmish between the poorhouse and Ryan's security forces, things have turned from bad to worse.

Ryan wasn't cowed by the fight that killed half the guys he sent. He was furious. He started an arms race in Rapture to fight against Fontaine. But it wasn't genetics.

He sponsored the creation of an "automated security force." That's right, robots. And these things aren't the cute ones you'd find in comic books. They were mechanical, heartless killing machines. There were flying boat motors that shot Tommy guns, "security cameras" that spied on anyone and everyone in Rapture (Ryan only installed these in "public places" but they were still creepy) and in some "high security environments" browning M1919 machine guns that shot by themselves. It was scary to see guns shooting at you without anyone operatin them.

And when Fontaine tried to Muscle his way into the robotics business, Ryan disappears C.M. Porter, the black genius who devised the supercomputer that ran Ryan's security machines (and most of Rapture, really.) he wasn't going to give Fontaine an inch.

But that was alright, because Fontaine wasn't going to give Ryan one either. Fontaine sold guns, and made a killing from his "upgraded" models. He made more powerful and dangerous plasmids, like "hypnotize" and "security command" to turn the tides on Ryan. He took Ryan's very forces, and pit them against him. And like Ryan, he had people he didn't like whacked.

And who got hit hard? Everyone else.

Ryan's bots were mostly,if not always, lethal, and would turn someone into Swiss cheese before he could say "shit." And of course, no one could say anything, since it was all listed as "security accidents".

And with all the "self-defense splicing" that people were doing, it started to take its toll. Murder, assault, suicide, all of those went up because of "splicer based insanity."

Ryan's starting to do more public speeches to build up morale. Every now and then I'd hear them on the radio.

"What use is our ideology if not tested?" one speech went. "The market does not respond like an infant, shrieking at the first sign of displeasure. The market is patient and we must be too.

Poor bastard. He really thought that this was only about money.

This was getting too much for me. Ryan was waging war directly on the smuggling ring. And Fontaine had people like Sammy G. dead in a salt pond. What's worse, I had to whack the guy myself by dropping a crate in him. Knocked the sonuvabitch out, and he drowned in the pool. That was Fontaine's orders at least. We were getting bled dry, and had to resort to gun running and plasmid trafficking, and that only raised more hell. Many of the guys, myself included, wanted to ask Fontaine just what the hell he was gonna do.

So a week ago, I got in contact with Fontaine to see what was up.

When, I entered the office, Fontaine was sitting at his desk, looking perfectly relaxed. He was leisurely smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee.

"Every time Ryan turns up the heat, I know I'm one step closer to beating him in his own game." he smiled smugly, and for some reason, that pissed me off greatly.

"Well, us wharf rats are getting fried here." I replied curtly "Do you have a way to end this thing? Attrition warfare's morale biting and expensive, and you ain't General MacArthur with the US government behind you"

Fontaine chuckled arrogantly "Yeah, but once this is over, we're gonna run this town tits to toes."

At that point in time, I stopped thinking, and felt my body swell with this incomprehensible rage, swelling from the bottom of my belly up to my throat like a volcanic eruption. For a few seconds, I couldn't speak, and when I tried, my jaws flapped up and down like a fish out of water, gasping for breath.

When I finally could speak Fontaine was studying me intently, waiting for my response.

"Goddamit, Fontaine!" I cried out. "Who do you think you are, Al Ca-fucking-pone?! There are people dying here! Not just our guys or Ryan's guys! Normal, ordinary people who have nothing to do with this bullshit you're stirring up here! And all for this glorified bucket o' seawater?"

Fontaine looked at me as though I was a six year old throwing a tantrum over a broken toy. "Don't you get?" he asked condescendingly. "ADAM's the ultimate score! No more grifts, no more con games! We could make standard oil look like a piggy bank! And the only thing in the way as that Ruski in the nice suit. Isn't that why you came down here, looking for the bigger score?"

"Fontaine, This wasn't my idea of a 'bigger score.' I was happy enough with running the fishing and smuggling business. Sure Ryan was putting the pressure on me, and I would've been happy to quit smuggling, but my life was on the line. and When I decided to fight back with you, to ferry guns and weaponized plasmids to your poorhouses, and whack my own people, It wasn't because I wanted to be a pawn in your chess match against Ryan."

"Rapture's a high stake's town. You knew the risk when you started up that business, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. And I accept that risk, but you're making this a lot bigger than between me and Ryan. All of Rapture's going to hell so you could be the King of the hill." And just to gall him, I added: "You're a conman! a bum! a lowlife who's gonna be living off of Grift for the rest of his goddamned life. This is just your biggest yet."

That really got him mad. "I think this discussion is over." he said tersely. His face was tightened up into an animalistic snarl. But his eyes. They had that vulture look in them.

As I walked out of that office, I closed the door gently behind me. An for some reason the little chat I had with Chandra came back into my head

"What do you believe in, Jack?" I whispered under my breath "why are you here."

I answered that question with as much brutal honesty that I could muster.

I believed in money. And power. I wanted control over my life, freedom from the poverty and violence that marked my Pre-Rapture years. I wanted the stability and comfort that came from easy money. And above all, I didn't want to be a nobody, a human cockroach who scuttled through life, trying to avoid the crushing boot of fate. That's why I gravitated towards Fontaine.

Fontaine got me all of those things more or less. But they were taken away from me so easily. Andrew Ryan, that Kafkaesque god of the deep, was holding my business by the balls, and the bank was drying up fast. Fontaine made me a soldier once again, but his war wasn't for freedom or democracy, but dollars and cents. And was I really a somebody down here? I was at the bottom of the ocean! In a place filled with nothing but "disappeared" people, ghosts of the surface world who no longer exist except in this place, a land of the dead.

The worst thing is that all I've ever been was Fontaine's top enforcer, his pet dragon. And was my highest goal in life really just being Fontaine's Bitch?

No. Fontaine had to be stop. He would tear this town apart to be on top, myself included. And even if he didn't, I'm tired of playing second fiddle to him. Rapture was a city "where the great would not be constrained by the small." And I know that I ain't smaller than when Peach Wilkins told me that the police wanted us to turn in Fontaine, I was keen to listen.

Yesterday on the Telephone, I got a call from security Chief Sullivan "It's on," he said tersely

Sullivan allowed me to come assist in arresting Fontaine as part of the agreement when Peach and I ratted him out. I wanted to make sure that he got locked up in a safe place.

We met outside of Fontaine's penthouse in Mercury Suites, which had an elevator. Sullivan and his gang were there armed to the teeth, and looking anxious

"What's going on?" I asked Sullivan as casually as I possibly could.

"We sent a guy up there to call out Fontaine. He hasn't come

Back for over half and hour."

This wasn't right. It was as if Fontaine knew we were coming.

I heard the elevator coming down from Fontaine's penthouse with a glimmer of hope, that maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought it was gonna be. That Fontaine was subdued, and he was gonna be pulled out dead or unconscious, and it would be over, just like that.

But when it came down, the elevator held the corpse of a policeman with "Send up Jack Martin. Alone." written on it.

"What's this sonuvabitch trying to play at?" growled one cop. They all looked at me nervously.

I was shitting in my pants there. Fontaine was armed, and probably was going to kill me, but I also was angry. And there was no way out of it.

"Take this," said one of the security personnel, who handed me a Tommy gun and a spare clip of bullets. "Put that bastard in the ground."

"thank you" I replied. I walked into the elevator and pushed the button.

The metal grating closed in front of me like prison bars. As the elevator slowly went on its dark, claustrophobic ascent to the penthouse, I gripped the tommy gun in my hand tightly, holding it as though it was the only real thing in the world. This was it.

My mind was racing with the memories I had of Fontaine. When I first met him as a little boy, when he gave me the job after the war, coming to Rapture, and the meeting a week before.

As my mind came back to the present, the elevator finished its journey, and I arrived at Fontaine's penthouse.

When the grating opened up, I saw the foyer to The penthouse, a large, empty room, held up by a group of cement pillars, structured in a rectangle around a large slab of hardwood. A window on the ceiling Cast the only light into the room, which landed directly on the hardwood, leaving the pillars and what surrounded them shrouded in darkness.

"So this is what it boils down to." shouted Fontaine's voice, which echoed across the room. "you and me, Mano a Mano." I heard Fontaine rack the pump of some unseen shotgun.

I ran to the nearest pillar to my right, making loud reverberating footsteps. BLAM, CHIK-CHIK! Fontaine fired his shotgun. The buckshot struck the pillar right beside mine, causing it to spray chunks of broken concrete and a little cloud of dust.

I crouched behind the pillar, my finger on the gun's trigger, trying to anticipate Fontaine's next move. Any movement I make would reveal my position. And shooting would be a dead giveaway.

Fontaine saw where I went, so he was probably headed to my position right now. I had to act fast .

BLAM, CHIK-CHIK! Fontaine fired another shot, directly striking the pillar I was hiding behind, causing me to flinch. "You know, you're just like your father, Jack! He wanted too much! He wanted to be the big man! And now, you're gonna end up just like him!"

"YOU BASTARD!" I shouted., Popping out and shooting a burst at his general direction. Now it didn't matter. Was he gonna play a whole generation of Martins for fools?

Not if I could do anything.

I heard Fontaine's wild loud footsteps running towards the door across the elevator. I saw his body dart into the light.

RATATATATATAT! I unloaded my Gun into Fontaine, relishing the powerful recoil of the weapon. He fell face down, twitching in a pool of his own blood, a hand still tightly gripping the shotgun.

As he lay dying, I heard a loud, animal scream. Whether it came from him or for me, I don't know. But after panting heavily for a few seconds, I finally calmed down.

The adrenaline rush was too much. I dropped the now empty Tommy Gun, and staggered back into the elevator. I didn't even bother to look at the body.

Today, I read in the papers "Fontaine killed in Fiery shoot out!"

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Jesus Christ. Finally."


	11. Company Man

September 21st, 1958

I'm right back where I started

Fontaine's dead, and I divorced Maggie some time after (tuns out she and Fontaine were seeing each other a few months before his demise. Too bad she didn't die with him.)

But while I no longer have Maggie's Company, I do have Fontaine's.

After I whacked Fontaine, Ryan nationalized Fontaine Futuristics. And there were more riots and more killing. (Seem's to be a pattern here, isn't there?) but he put me in charge of the management. I could do anything I want, so long as it was

The pay's good, and I no longer have to worry about the smuggling business (Peach Wilkins now runs that. Let Ryan chew him out) but expensive suits and fine dining are cold comforts for what I had to give up for this post.

Thinking back, All I've ever done was lose. On the surface, I lost my parents, one of them to the guy I used to work for. Down here, I lost Maggie, and although Fontaine killed my father and fucked my wife, by shooting him, I lost the only friend I had in this fish tank. It sure is lonely at the top.

Oh, who am I shitting? I'm not at the top of anything. Ryan screws me over just as hard as Fontaine did. All that's changed is the number on my business cards.

You know. I can't believe it took me ten years. Ten Years! to see what a sham Rapture really is. Ryan's gotta be stupid or lying if he thought this was paradise. How could there be a utopia where the bottom dollar was held to be the gateway to salvation? Everyone here is at everyone else's throats. It didn't take a wannabe gangster like Fontaine, nor a businessman-turned-dictator like Ryan to tear Rapture apart. In its conception, this city held the very seeds of its decay.

But until then, I have to go to my day job

I started my first day of work yesterday. I remember how I strolled into the Fontaine Futuristics building, briefcase in hand, just like I always did. But now, Fontaine's Dark haired secretary told me "welcome to your new office, Mr. Martin."

It still had "Office of Frank Fontaine" written at the top.

When I came into the office, It was just like I saw it. Same desk, same window, same boar's head. Same desk. But now there was a painting of Fontaine, a woman, and a little boy of to the side.

That sort of troubled me. Fontaine didn't have a family, so I don't know what the hell it was. It even felt weird sitting in his desk. A desk belonging to a dead man. Now I've killed people before in the war, but this felt different. The Kraut soldiers I shot all bled, screamed in German how much it hurt, and died shuddering like dogs. But they weren't that real to me. Just another thing I had to shoot.

But I knew Fontaine. I knew him too well,and saw what a manipulative, scheming brute he really was. And while I'm not sorry I did he died, I can't help but feel regretful of having his blood on my hands. Nothing good came from things taken with a gun.

As I filled up Fontaine's now empty desk with the contents of my briefcase, I came across a curious sight. Strapped under the desk was a shotgun.

Hopefully, I would never have to use it.

It was only a day, but by now, I finally knew the dirty secrets of Fontaine Futuristics.

Do you know how Fontaine manages to produce so much ADAM? They surgically implant the sea slug into little girls.

You heard me. Sweet little girls around the ages of five to eight, taken straight from the little sisters orphanages Fontaine has all over Rapture. (These were one of Tenenbaum's ideas after the war. The Nazis must've fucked her up real good.) You should see them. Their skin is pale green and their eyes glow an eerie yellow color, but the worst part is...they still act like normal children. They sing. They play with their dolls. I managed to catch one, A Dark haired Girl who curiously resembled Neel Chandra, wandering in the halls while I sat on a bench. She smiled at me and sat on my lap and said "Hello, mister. Will you play with me?" As polite as I could I told her no, and held her hand on the way back to the labs. When let her go, I realized that I was shaking.

Plasmids also required...Human test subjects. People that Ryan "disappeared." were rented out by August Sinclair to have ADAM cocktails injected into them. And if something went horribly wrong...let me put it to you this way: the lucky ones died. Some of the test subjects were promoted to "demonstrators", showing off plasmids and gene tonics, while wearing heavily modified diving suits borrowed from Chandra Metal's mining division. Ryan says its to "protect the demonstrators from any adverse effects of the plasmid displays". I think it's so that the audience won't find their aunts and uncles on stage. It would be hard to sell ADAM products if someone finds out how they iron out the kinks.

Lemme tell you: I've seen the shit that happened in Bergen-Belsen and Nanking, and both combined don't add up to the sick things Fontaine Futuristics is doing. At least the Krauts and the Japs were vile racist pigs. Here, a crime against humanity is strictly business.

Turns out I wasn't the only one who hated the way things were being odne.

Because today, I had a visit from Brigid Tenenbaum.

"Herr Martin, I need you to test this plasmid" she said to me. I was wearing my three piece suit, 'cept this one had a black tie. She was wearing a pink jumper, clean for once. She placed an unlabeled plasmid jar with a hypo right next to it.

"Why me specifically?" I asked coyly. "Don't we have men in diving suits to do that?"

"Bitte," she said more urgently. I could feel the dull fury burning behind their eyes. "Time is running out. They are planning to send The Little Ones into the streets to scavenge corpses."

"WHAT?!" I asked, spraying spit. "Are they out of their fucking minds?! Sending children with a bellyful of ADAM alone in the streets in this town? Not only is it dangerous, that's just stupid."

"Not alone..." said Tenenbaum "The labs are planning to use the demonstrators as...protectors. Some people have been calling them 'Big Daddies'". She then told me how they were gonna make the Big Daddies.

Big Daddies, huh? sounded like something out of a comic book. "So what's that got to do with me and this plasmid?"

"This Plasmid will kill the Sea Slug in their stomach, and free them of their torment." She said.

"So lemme get this straight, you sick kike bitch," I growled. "You do things that would make Hitler himself shudder to innocent little girls, and then, you put yourself as some kind of savior? You're no hero, Tenenbaum, you're a hypocrite." I was angry. Genuinely angry. Tenenbaum was gonna tear the business I worked so hard to get apart because of a guilty conscience? It was too late for her now. When she showed me that sea slug to Fontaine and I nearly a decade ago, she already bought herself a one way ticket to hell. Least she could do was not drag this company down with it.

Tenenbaum started to sob. "One of the children came and sat in my lap. I push her off, I shout, 'Get away from me!' I can see the ADAM oozing out of the corner of her mouth, thick and green. Her filthy hair hanging in her face, dirty clothes, and that dead glow in her eye... I feel... hatred, like I never felt before, in my chest. Bitter, burning, fury. I can barely breathe. And suddenly, I know, it is not this child I hate..." she looked at me, eyes shining with tears. "These children I brutalized have awoken something inside that for most is beautiful and natural, but in me, is an abomination... my maternal instinct."

I started to soften up. It's a real shame how easily broads could make me soften up.

"Alright Tenenbaum. I'll keep your damned plasmid. but no promises."

She muttered a barely audible "Danke," and left the office.

As I sat thinking of what I would do with that plasmid, I remember that promise I made to myself. To be a drug addict ever again. And here I was now, selling people a powerful, soul breaking addiction that came with a terrible production cost. The irony was sickening.

But I finally found a use for the plasmid later that day. Because an hour right after, I saw Neel Chandra.

He was wearing the same white collared shirt and khakis that I always saw him with but he was dirty and haggard. His face had a noticeable five o'clock shadow and his eyes were red and wild looking.

"Marty, we need to talk."

Chandra told me how Ryan Industries kidnapped his daughter, Anna Chandra, to turn her into a little sister. My thoughts flashed to the Little Sister I met in the hall. He then mentioned how he was aware of their plans to send the girls on the streets.

"I want you to make me a Big Daddy," he finally gasped. "I know what they'll do to me. I just wanna be with my little girl. She's the only thing Christina and I have left!" his lips quivered as though he was on the verge of crying. I had enough crying for today. And I really wanted to get rid of that plasmid.

"Chandra, splice this plasmid up." I said handing him the plasmid. After they put you into the suit, use it on your daughter and you'll can save her from being a little sister. Then you and your wife pack everything you can and see Peach Wilkins. He'll have a sub waiting for you."

"And then what?" asked Chandra tentatively

"Then, you get the hell out of this hole." I said smiling.

"Thank you, Marty" He said after some difficulty.

After he left the office, I pulled out a typewriter and made a few instructions for the eggheads in the Big Daddy process

FIRST CANDIDATE: NEEL CHANDRA

LITTLE SISTER: ANNA CHANDRA

SUBJECT DESIGNATION: SUBJECT ALPHA (A)

MODIFICATIONS: NONE NECESSARY. JUST PUT HIM IN THE DIVING SUIT

RELEASE POINT: NEPTUNE'S BOUNTY

ADDITIONAL NOTES: IF ANY OF YOU SQUEAL ON ME, I'M SHOOTING YOU MYSELF.

I then made a phone call to Peach to ask him to ready a sub for a redhead, a mulatto child, and a man in a diving suit. He told me that I was crazy, but said he'd do it anyway.

As I placed the phone back on the receiver, I let out a sigh of satisfaction. In Rapture, the struggles are hard, and the victories are far and few. Who knows what'll happen? Maybe Ryan'll catch the Chandras and kill them all. Maybe they won't find anything topside (God knows what they would do to a mudshark like Mrs. Chandra). But at least I saved a few people from going down with this place. And in my humble opinion, that makes all the difference in the world .

Right After work, I threw away my wages at Fort Frolic, getting wasted at Sinclair Spirits then gambling like there was no tomorrow at Sir Prize. Although I lost enough dough in Blackjack to bake a large wedding cake, I had plenty of Cash. At least, enough to go home.

Straight from Fort Frolic, I staggered out of the Apollo Square Bathysphere and headed for the Athena's Glory tram. On my way, I saw a homeless woman holding a coffee mug sitting forlornly on a bench, asking me for some cash. I pulled out a few dollars and saw the picture of Ryan emblazoned on them

The scowl on its face seemed to bury right into my skull. The image seemed to say "As wealthy as you are, I still own your ass. And as long as you're here I always will be".

"We'll see about that," I muttered to myself.

"Hey can you spare me a couple of bucks?" asked the homeless woman once more.

I emptied my entire wallet onto her lap.


	12. Hello, 1959

January 1st, 1959

This year started off with a bang. And I don't mean that in a good way.

Because a couple of hours ago, the Kashmir Restaurant was bombed.

I didn't see it coming, but at the same time, deep down, I knew this was going to happen. I knew I couldn't save this place, even after whacking the guy who was ripping it to shreds. No, Fontaine didn't have anything to do with what's going on. Rapture was damned from the get go. With a town like this, where everyone was struggling to be a big shot, exploiting and brutalizing their fellow human beings for a couple of bucks, it was only a matter of time before Rapture finally erupted into violence. The problem is that I'm going to sink right with it.

It all started October of last year

"Who is Atlas?" became Rapture's burning new question as the posters proliferated, first around the poorer districts of Apollo Square and Pauper's Drop, and then even to public places like Arcadia and Fort Frolic. The rich folks didn't care. They were too busy stuffing themselves, and having joined there ranks only recently, I did the same with a slight tinge of guilt. But down in the Fontaine poorhouses I heard murmurs of a proletariat, who'd lead the masses in a great crusade against Andrew Ryan himself. A revolution of the common man

Whenever I heard that bit, I had a chuckle. No one in Rapture gave a squirt of piss about anyone else. Fontaine taught me that. If this "Atlas" chump was really planning to start a revolution, it was because he wanted to be the man in charge. All that would happen is that one sorry despot will be replaced with another.

I wasn't any better, but at least I kept the poorhouses and orphanages afloat. Even if the Little Sisters were sent out on the streets to suck blood from corpses, at least we gave them food and shelter. Whatever shred of decency left in me was spent on these people.

Anyways, I didn't hear too much about the Atlas business until Rapture Day.

I was laying on the couch at home, listening to music on the radio as I thought of my life so far. After the initial shock, working as the manager of Fontaine Futuristics became easy, almost boring work. For the most part, I sat in the office and waited for someone to ferry me Ryan's demands, then I sent instructions to each department on what to make. I ate my lunch in the office, and when the day was done, I left the office for Fort Frolic either gambling my day's wages or drinking the night away. Once in awhile, I'd catch a little tail in Siren Alley. But the days had dissolved into a meaningless stretch of time. I became a criminal and a killer in the pursuit of wealth and power, and when neither came to me, all that I had left was the blood on my hands. I've accepted the fact that I'll be stuck in this rut for the rest of my life. All that I was doing now was waiting to die.

But I quit wallowing in self-pity after I heard a record scratch on the Radio set and the voice of an Irishman spoke loud and clear.

"Good Evening" said the voice, "My name is Atlas."

I bolted upright. This night was gonna get a lot more interesting.

"I'm sure you rich wankers are all enjoying your champagne and caviar. But have you ever thought about the poor people you exploit and discard? Made it by the "sweat of your brow", huh?" or did the other people have to swear for you. There's a word for people like you: Parasites. Well enjoy your champagne and caviar, because things will be changing around here. And I promise you, there will be blood...

"Do you know why I call myself 'Atlas?' It is after the Greek Titan who was forced to hold the sky in atonement for fighting the gods. In that way, we, the poor, hard-working, laborers whose toil feed the Wealthy and Idle are like that poor noble being, bearing their ever-growing weight. If you saw Atlas, still trying to hold the world aloft what would you tell him to do? Well, I will speak for him and for all of you: shrug."

That was only the beginning though. Things got really interesting on New Year's Eve.

After Atlas's little "coming out" on Rapture Day, people panicked. Ryan made more public arrests, even a couple of executions. Everyone thought that everyone else was Atlas, and anti-Irish discrimination among the rich skyrocketed, especially towards poor Irish, but even I was affected. One day, while I came back from work, I found the word "Mick" painted on my door. I washed it off without a second thought. I figured that Ryan would find Atlas and either lock him up or kill him, and as ashamed as I am to say it, the thought comforted me.

By December of 1958, the Atlas mania died down. but that was only the calm before the storm.

New Year's Eve I decided to do something fun for the night and go to the Kashmir Restaurant, a real classy joint around the Rapture Welcome center. The restaurant was known for its great music, fantastic food, and wild New Year's Eve Parties. Made a night at the Big Dipper look like a trip to the local country club. Even as Boss of Fontaine's Smuggling Ring, I still didn't have enough cash to enter the joint until recently.

With Maggie Gone, Fontaine in the ground, and the Chandras (hopefully) up topside, I hadn't found anyone to go to the Restaurant with. Out of desperation, I asked my secretary, a Miss Giuliana Scorsese. She batted her eyes at me real friendly, and said she would go with me if I'd give her a raise. I already married a

Gold-Digger, and wasn't too keen on keeping company with another, so I decided to go alone and see who I'd meet at the ball.

That very night, I was in my bedroom, dressing up for the masquerade ball, putting on my finest black tuxedo. As I tied on the elaborate bow tie, I caught glimpse of my snubnose revolver glinting on the dresser drawer. Since I didn't need it after Ryan put me in Fontaine Futuristics, It was lying their for months. Now the worries about Atlas and his "revolutionaries" didn't seem close by, but a night like this, where the, richest, most powerful citizens of Rapture would be all heading to one place, seemed like a perfect opportunity for shit to hit the fan.

I picked up the revolver, savoring its weight in my hands. As I held the thing in my left palm, I let my right hand curl around The grip, my index finger resting on the trigger guard. I felt naked, defenseless without it. And defenseless was the last thing I wanted to be.

So I slipped the gun into the pocket of my tux, and with its warm, comforting weight, I set off to the ball.

The joint was packed when me and my secretary headed of to the ball. Everywhere, there was people, talking, dancing, laughing, a loud, indistinguishable roar that set the ambience of the ball. I got a seat in the upper balcony area, right above the small dance floor, where a band of colored musicians played their tunes. The jazz music was unrestrained and energetic, like the dancers. A couple of the people were doing the charleston, while I saw a couple of people shimmying. I looked at them with absent-minded disinterest, smoking an Oxford Club cigarette, and eyeing a plate of medium rare sirloin steak which I had yet to cut into. A young girl was on the dance floor, waltzing with some youthful boy who couldn't have been more than nineteen. How did his parents let him out?

I wasn't exactly having the time of my life, but it felt good to be out of the office, out of a casino or a bar or a whorehouse. I relaxed a little bit. Maybe the new year would bring some new life into me. I sure as hell could use it.

As I finished the Arcadia merlot in the wine glass right at my right, I

Went downstairs to see if I could find anyone to dance with. I met up with the same girl, a slender blonde wearing a cat-shaped masquerade mask with blue eyes and a pretty smile, and without a word, she took my hand, and we danced a graceful, elegant foxtrot. I was a bit out of practice, but soon got into the swing of things.

After the dance, we broke apart, and I went upstairs and checked my watch to see what time it was. Three minutes to midnight. By then, on the television screens near the bar turned on, and the face of Andrew Ryan appeared.

""Good evening, my friends.

I hope you are enjoying your New Year's Eve celebration; it has been a year of trials for us all.

Tonight I wish to remind each of you that Rapture is your city. It was your strength of will that brought you here, and with that strength you shall rebuild.

And so, Andrew Ryan offers you a toast.

To Rapture, 1959.

May it be our finest year."

And the screen went blank. But right then, I knew that he was dead wrong.

At that moment, the restaurant's front door open, and in came three, poor bums, armed to the teeth.

One guy pulled out a pistol, and shot a man at a table dead. The man 's head plopped into his soup almost comically.

At that point, the band stopped playing music, the guests stopped dancing. Even the gunmen looked a little bewildered.

And then, the people started to scream.

"Long live Atlas!" shouted one gunmen, throwing an explosive sardine can into the throng.

"Death to Ryan!" shouted another, firing a strange looking Tommy Gun at the tables.

I pulled out my snubnose, knocking over the table with a clatter of dishes and silverware, then crouching under it, holding my weapon in a death grip. In cover, I could only hear the sounds of gunshots, and people, screaming, shoving, running anywhere that wasn't in the line of fire. I opened my gun to see that there was six rounds in it. I didn't bring any spare ammo, so I'd have to make every single bullet count

In the war, I knew that heroics didn't count for scratch when your life was on the line, but that didn't stop me from knocking the table aside and marching towards the bums, pistol drawn.

BLAM! The first round struck the man with the shortened tommy gun right in the temple, and he crumpled in a heap. BLAM! BLAM! I fired at another bum holding a shotgun, shooting him down just as he was starting to take aim at me. BLAM!BLAM!BLAM! I emptied the final three rounds into the last man standing, the one holding the pistol. With gun in hand, I marched out of the restaurant. I didn't pay for my meal, but after saving everyone's asses, I think the manager would ignore that...

So here I am. I was waiting for the world to end. And now I got my wish


	13. A Hard Day's Fight

April 8th, 1959

Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

The Kashmir Restaurant wasn't the only place that got hit on New Year's

Eve. Everywhere from Adonis Resorts to Ryan Amusements was attacked, so long as it was rich, Ryanist, or both. All of these uprisings had one thing in common: they were linked to Atlas. This wasn't some small time rioting. This was an act of war.

Ryan answered to the challenge. Ryan Industries took to More powerful, more brutal plasmids, many of which were sold to citizens as "home defense systems." When the economy crashed, ADAM shortages were so bad that the new "Gatherer's Garden" vending machines started to use it as cash.

With a lack of ADAM came more bloodthirsty, vicious splicers, looking for a quick fix from any little sister they could get their hands on. So that meant more Big Daddies. Ryan even built a factory for them at Point Prometheus. And. These weren't just men in diving suits. They were heavily armored, foul smelling, easily enraged killing machines. Whenever you heard the whale-like moan of a Big Daddy, bellowing in anger, you knew you were fucked.

And I myself...started to splice.

I know I promised myself that I wouldn't get hooked on some crazy drug, but this was different. I've been jumped too many times by too many people. Atlas's men, Ryan's men, Fontaine, and all of them nearly took my life. Now, I was evolving to keep up with the pack. I won't deny it, ADAM felt better than Army Morphine. It felt better than sex. It felt better than shooting up Army Morphine while having sex. But it's for protecting myself. Really.

Almost everywhere in Rapture was hit. Fort Frolic was closed because of the war, and Apollo square became Rapture's resident gulag (especially since Atlas was supposedly hiding there). Olympus Heights and Hephaestus were attacked every other day now. But oddly enough, Fontaine Futuristics wasn't even touched in all the fighting, and we had all the ADAM, a genetic weapon that makes nuclear missiles look like firecrackers.

Ryan and the rest of his overpaid pricks knew business, but not war. They never knew its soul crushing violence, the brutal reality of losing, and the paltry gains of winning. At least I'm not in the front lines, though. Now, I'm just their pogue.

Sometimes I thought of resigning. As Fontaine Futuristics's manager, I was in charge of organizing Ryan's demands and making sure they were met. If I took myself, and in effect Fontaine Futuristics, out of the equation, I could shut down Ryan's operation. Force him to negotiate with Atlas and end this bullshit war.

But I can't do that. Like it or not, I need food on the table. This job's the only thing I got, and if Atlas wins, my ass will be in a sling. I'd probably end up hanging at Apollo Square.

As it turns out, though, giving up Fontaine Futuristics may have been a smart thing to do. Cause Atlas's boys sure as hell wanted it.

Today, we endured an assault on Fontaine Futuristics.

The day started out normal as can be. I was at my typewriter, filing a report for plasmid test results from the R and D department, forwarding a request for high power Ammo from the Ares Armaments wing of Ryan Industries, etc. I paused to pull out an EVE hypo, Pulling back my shirt sleeve and tracing my arm for the faint blue outline of a vein. I then jabbed it in with a slight twinge of pain and depressed the syringe. A warm pleasant feeling washed all over my body , radiating outward from my arm, and I let a smile curl across my face.

As I started to resume my work, I heard a loud alarm sound off, followed by the chirping of security bots. It seemed as though we had company. Unwelcome company.

I pulled out the shotgun from under my desk, and reached into a drawer to pull out some buckshot , then pocketing a couple of EVE Hypos. I loaded the magazine, shell by shell, before racking the pump, and I ran to meet my attackers.

RATATATATAT! Two floors below me, A ragtag group of poorly dressed men and women, working class from the looks of it, were illuminated by the white spotlight of a Security Camera. They were in a shootout with a pair of security bots, who were darting and weaving past their gunfire . On the ground lay a couple of corpses, who had more holes in them than a block of Swiss Cheese.

Flames began to form on my fingertips, searing my flesh. I curled my fingers to form a fireball, and threw it at the invaders. It exploded in the mob, lighting them up like screaming candles.

BLAM-CHIK-CHIK! BLAM-CHIK-CHIK! Two shotgun blasts mopped up whoever was left. The security bots tittered away.

I anxiously groped for a couple of shells before pushing them into the shotgun. This wasn't right. Atlas couldn't have just sent this small group to attack Fontaine Futuristics. Unless...

As I turned around, realizing the diversion. A lightning bolt shot out of nowhere and struck me square in the chest. I fell down the stairs, writhing in pain, my face muscles tensed into a painful grimace. As I hit the bottom with a painful thud, I saw stars and that was it...

When I came to, I was leaning on a pillar, several feet away from the floor I fell on. My nose was flooded with a pungent odor, and I doubled over retching.

"What was that?" I asked, still in a daze. Ryan security officers were posted all over the place, some of them interviewing employees, others guarding doorways with Tommy Guns and shotguns, some just casually smoking cigarettes. A Ryan Security officer was holding a bottle of smelling salt over my nose.

"They knocked you out pretty good." said the man, a negro with a thick mustache. "We took care of Atlas's thugs. But they tore up the place. " I saw the wreckage. The whole third floor stairway was blown off. Crumbled plaster littered the floor, and water sprang from several leaks, mixing with the dust to form a pale white sludge.

"They're still in the building,though," said the guard. "But it's not clear where they've gone." he continued. He then narrowed his eyes. "You're Mr. Martin, the manager of this place, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," I said cordially. When I got up, I saw that my shotgun was gone, along with all 34 spare rounds of ammo, and the four remaining EVE Hypos. Those bastards really picked me clean. "May I go to my office?" I asked brusquely "I need to do an inventory check." the officer nodded, and I marched up to the office.

On my way there, I saw Miss Scorsese lying on the ground beside her desk, spread eagled. Her crisp white blouse and black skirt were covered in dull brown splotches of dried blood. Her mouth was open in a silent, frozen scream, and her unblinking, glazed over eyes were wide in terror.

I've seen plenty of stiffs in my lifetime, but looking at my dead secretary's corpse, I couldn't help but give a sob. "She's a goddamned secretary." I gasped out loud. "She didn't hurt anybody."

When I entered the office, It was in a mess. Papers were strewn all over the desk and the floor around it. The desk itself had its drawers open and emptied. It looked like a thunderstorm went into this place.

As I walked to the desk, I saw that's other on it was a marbled paper hardcover book. It was the Office Directory of Fontaine Futuristics. My directory, which had everywhere, even the places that technically don't exist. It was opened right to the location of the Little Sister/Big Daddy holding cells.

"Shit!" I shouted. I sprinted out of the room and ran to the Plasmid Laboratories. Although I was about to take on a group of heavily armed rebels, I didn't need any guns. With ADAM, my body was already a weapon.

I panted to a halt after crossing the glass tunnel that opened to the labs. Flames formed on my fingertips, searing the flesh on my palms (though oddly enough, it didn't hurt.)

I exited the bulkhead to enter the darkly lit main laboratory, a circular, grimy room dominated by a single (empty) sea life tank. I crouched behind the controls of the sea life tank as I heard voices.

"I still don't understand why you let him live," said a high pitched woman's voice.

"I knew the bastard." replied another, more familiar woman's voice. "after all, I was married to him."

It was Maggie! I cupped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying out. What was she doing here?"

"It's alright, I used to love Andrew Ryan himself. Before I found out what kind of man he was." replied the other woman. Maggie let out a short laugh.

Footsteps. The women were walking away. I took the opportunity to tail them. They disappeared into one of the Plasmid laboratories. I followed them in there, to find the room was empty. Suddenly, I felt the barrel of a shotgun gently nudging my back.

"You know Jack, I hope I didn't make a mistake by letting you live." said Maggie. She was wearing a homely brown dress, her red hair tied in a ponytail behind her head.

"So this is what it boils down to? This is your revolution? They're going to kill a kid, Maggie. A child!" I was shaking. Goddammit, why on front of her?

"You made...it that way, Jack. You and Ryan." said Maggie. I saw that the gun in her hand was shaking. Outside, I heard gunshots and the angry roar of an Alpha Series Big Daddy.

"Maybe, but you think Atlas's is gonna solve anything? He's a power hungry thug. Like everyone in this damned place. Like Fontaine. Like Ryan. Like-"

"Like you." Ended Maggie

I heard the Big Daddy's dying roar and a loud crash. The sounds of a little girl weeping turned to shrieks of fear and pain. It ended with a single gunshot.

Maggie blanched. I didn't think she knew this was part of the routine. "You should go now," she whispered. "I don't think they'll like it when they see you."

And I did. Of Course though, Most of Atlas's revolutionaries were ambushed and killed by Ryan's Security team as they left the labs. Only Maggie and a handful of other splicers left with their meager gains. But it wasn't any victory. There

That very day, I resigned from Fontaine Futuristics. I had enough of it. I was done with all the blood and the money. I was done with trying to salvage Rapture, first from Fontaine, then from Atlas. This is Ryan's problem now, not mine...

Withdrew every single penny I had from the bank. Then, I went on one last shopping spree. I'm holing myself up until either this war ends, or Rapture ends. Whichever comes first.


	14. Paradise Lost

December 13th, 1959

I've made my first trip outside today in months.

I've been hiding in my apartment ever since I resigned. This place must've been attacked at least a couple of times, since every now and then I've heard gunshots and explosions outside my door. But I value my life, so I hid in here and whittled down my rations.

The radio had Ryan haranguing us with news on how great this war's going, how many traitor's he's arrested and executed. But eventually, I've been hearing fewer and fewer announcements, and one day they stopped coming. Perhaps the war was over, or Maybe the radio service just got shut down. Either way, I was completely cut off now.

Sometimes I wondered to myself whether I was responsible for this. For Rapture. I was with Fontaine for the very beginning, I made it possible for him to build this ADAM industry that made him butt heads with Ryan, and killing Fontaine was too little too late. Or maybe Ryan was just an egotistical bastard who was bound to become a tyrant, and I just happened to be along for the ride.

Sometimes my thoughts wandered to the surface. If I stayed up there, I could've avoided this. I would've been broke, but at least I'd be safe. And free from all the chaos of Rapture. Sure Fontaine left and I needed to get a job, but that bundle of cash he gave me could help me stay afloat.

And in the end, when I promised myself that I'd never be poor, I came here, blinded by my dreams for the dollar. And I've lost it all now. The only thing that Rapture hasn't taken from me is my life, and I'm not sure whether I should be thanking this place for that.

But my supplies were dwindling fast. I was running out of more and more food and booze. I was also starting to get a sizable craving for ADAM. Day in and day out, it played a drum roll in my head, begging me, screaming at me to get a fix. It was worse than the morphine.

And so, a combination of hunger, withdrawal, and curiosity drew me out of my apartment into the outside world.

Packing a Med Hypo, EVE, a wallet, and my snubnosed revolver, I left to find out what remained of Rapture.

"What happened to this place?" I asked aloud as I surveyed my surroundings. I was in the long corridor of my apartment, which was nearly completely dark, save for a couple of dim lights. I padded nervously down the hallway, pistol in hand. When I reached Athena's Glory's great atrium, I saw what had happened to the city.

The floor was covered with broken plaster. Seawater sprang from leaks in the glass sealing forming little puddles on the ground. The walls were dotted with burns and bullet holes. Looking at it, I had a flashback to Ste Mère Église, the French village I fought through in the war.

On may way to the elevator, I came across a middle age woman in a filthy grey dress crouching underneath a leak. It was my neighbor, Mrs. Smith, who was rooting through a corpse, searching it for valuables, I guess.

I took a step forward. "Darling, is that you?" she called out, cocking her head behind her.

"Mrs. Smith, what are you doing..." my voice trailed off when I saw the feral look in her lesioned and splotchy face. In her hand was a bloody, battered pipe. Glowing blue lines streaked up and down my arms.

"Vulgar little tramp!" she shouted at me, raising her pipe.

I fired a shot of Electro Bolt at her. The lightning missed, and instead hit the puddle she was standing in, lighting her up like a Christmas tree.

"NYAARGH!" she shrieked, going rigid as lightning leapt around her. She then crumpled into a heap on the ground, electricity still dancing around her body.

I gazed uncomfortably at the splicer that used to be my neighbor. This...thing was the product of ADAM, a sad junkie who corroded herself physically, mentally, and emotionally.

After staring numbly at the corpse, I continued padding down the hallway, ears scanning intently for the slightest rustle.

I continued on my way, and just reached the elevator, when I heard the sound of cracking plaster coming from the ceiling, I looked upward to see a humanoid shape crawl away from a nearby light.

My stomach turned. I scanned the ceiling restlessly looking for the freak. Frost and icicles began to coagulate around my hands as I searched for the splicer. My heart skipped a beat when I heard a loud thud behind me, followed by an inhuman howl. Spinning rapidly, I threw a shot of Winter Blast behind me.

There encased in the ice was a barely human monster. The splicer had a misshapen, skull-like head, with its fanged mouth open in a gruesome snarl. Its hands were now talons, sharp as meat hooks and outstretched towards me. Worst of all, the thing was wearing a torn but once handsome charcoal grey suit, as a ghastly reminder of what it once was.

I pulled out my revolver, and shot the frozen splicer in the head, shattering into a million shards of ice.

I absently shuffled into the elevator, hitting the button and closing it behind me.

This place had gone to hell. ADAM. The war. It destroyed the city. What had I done?

I shook my head, directing my thoughts to the Circus of Values vending machine located on the groin floor. Maybe I could scavenge some supplies from it. I checked my wallet

"Fuck." I cursed. The damn thing was nearly empty. I had to find money. And fast.

The elevator door opened at the ground floor when a screaming blur flew past my face and hit the wall at my left. Cautiously peeking my head out, I saw that it was a splicer, thrown across the room and now lying in a bloody heap on the floor. RATATATATATAT! A machine gun chattered, mixing in with the sound of countless other human voices

Nearby, a group of splicers were fighting a big daddy, a round one with a giant drill, which whirred noisily as it jammed itself in the belly of a woman.

She screamed in pain as the drill ripped out of her in a cascade of blood.

"Norma!" shouted a nearby man with a Tommy Gun in grief. Looked like the woman was his wife.

Unfortunately for me, the splicers were ducking it out right in front of the Circus of Values machine. If I wanted to get to it, it meant taking down the metal monster.

Flames danced around my fingertips as I shot a blast of Incinerate at the sonuvabitch. It let out a roar as it charged towards me,

I barely kept out of the war , as the Big Daddy raced like a runaway train into the opposing wall. It's armor was blackened and twisted from the flames, but it was still functional. And still, very very angry.

" Hey, shit for brains, grabbed the girl! Shouted one young male splicer with a pistol to another young female splicer. I heard a high pitched scream as the female splicer grabbed the little girl

At that point I forgot about the Big Daddy, and ran for the girl. This was my chance to get some ADAM.

BLAM! BLAM!I took a few potshots at the splicers, downing them with a bullet to the head. The Little Sister cowered into a corner, and just when I was about to grab her, I heard a roar behind me.

It was the Big Daddy. The blackened, metal mess was lumbering towards me, bellowing steam, as its bloodstained drill revved up for the kill.

Letting out a yelp. I fell to the ground, firing a shot at the Big Daddy.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. The Big Daddy let out an almost pitiful moan it slumped to the ground!

"MR BUBBLES!" wailed the little sister, who rushed towards the corpse weeping.

But as I stared a it, I felt pity for the ghoulish child. Ryan took away her future, and now even though this foul monster I had slain was an equally pitiful creature, it was also the only family she had left. Their love was artificial but not impure. She had nothing. Just like me.

I picked up the long sharp needle the Little Sister carried with her and stuck it into my arm, pumping the sweet ADAM through my veins. Then I dragged the weeping, screaming little girl, and threw her down a nearby bronze vent, needle behind her.

I frisked the Big Daddy corpse and found around $100. Then, I bought as much stuff as I could carry.

I went back to the elevator, pulling out an EVE hypo and jabbing it into my arm. After trudging through the hallway, I returned to my apartment.

After placing the food in the refrigerator I pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a fireball. After a few puffs, I crushed it into an ashtray and collapsed on the couch...

This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.


	15. Epilogue

August 21, 1960.

Jack Martin stopped the final tape. Ever since then, he hadn't done much, hiding in his apartment by day, and every night, venturing into Rapture, now a giant graveyard, and fighting the ghoulish splicers that inhabited it.

But he couldn't go on like this any longer. He had nothing now. Nothing. No family, no money, and no life, save for this accursed existence, and that wasn't much.

So Martin pulled out his revolver and aimed it in his mouth, savoring the sharp, cold taste of the barrel. It would be the last sensation he would ever feel.

But before he could pull the trigger, he heard a crash. Outside of his window sunk the remains of an airplane. He hadn't seen an airplane in years. Someone new came to town.

Putting down his revolver, Martin let out a sardonic smile.

"Well," he chuckled "This should be interesting."


End file.
